


Between Empires and Legends

by attackamazon



Series: Empire and Legends [1]
Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Difficult Decisions, Diplomacy, F/M, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Love Triangles, Psychological Trauma, Romance, Tragedy, War, bad relationships, good relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-30
Updated: 2017-07-02
Packaged: 2018-04-18 04:21:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 18
Words: 80,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4691915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/attackamazon/pseuds/attackamazon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gallica, ex-Legion officer, Dragonborn, reluctant diplomat, has avoided taking sides in the civil war thus far. But after being visited separately by the two men at the center of the conflict, and learning something about each of them, she is forced to promise an answer. But what will her answer be and can she live with it? Dragonborn/Ulfric/Tullius triangle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Night Visitations

The monastery of High Hrothgar loomed up the path through a swirl of snow and wind, the ancient stone spires of the building a welcome sight to Gallica after the long ride from Windhelm and the grueling trudge up the 7000 Steps. Lydia's footsteps stopped their crunching pursuit suddenly behind her and she looked over her shoulder, remembering that the housecarl had never been here before.

"That's the monastery? Where the Greybeards live?" Lydia asked reverently, as she brushed tendrils of dark hair that had become plastered to her face out of her eyes.

Gallica nodded her assent as she glanced over to where a small handful of Imperial soldiers were setting up camp for the night just off of the path. A similar cadre of Stormcloaks glared warily at them further along.

"It's usually quieter," she replied and withheld a sigh.

She regretted disturbing the monks' peace, but something had to be done about this war and there was no other way to make everyone see sense. The best she could do was try to get it all over with quickly. There were bigger and more immediate problems to be addressed.

"Do you remember our discussion? Your orders, if things should go bad?"

"Yes, my Thane," Lydia murmured soberly.  

Gallica watched as the younger woman squared her shoulders self-consciously and was once again pleased that she had decided to bring the housecarl along.  It would do Lydia good to see this.  Their business was not all blood and blades.  Sometimes, it was diplomacy.  Knowing how to talk to people.  Waiting for just the right moment.  And it was nice to have another pair of hands and eyes around.  What Lydia lacked in experience, she made up for in diligence.

"There you are," said another familiar voice before Gallica could continue up to the monastery.

She turned, careful to keep her face composed as she saw Delphine and Esbern making their way slowly up the slope towards them. Both looked weary and agitated and Gallica had to work hard to keep her expression from falling at the sight of them. It was not that she disliked either of them - she didn't, they had at various times over the last few months been the only people she could rely on -but she had purposefully not invited the Blades to this conference because she had anticipated the dramatic scene that was likely to erupt. There would be too much bickering already with the two opposing leaders of the civil war at the same table.  Why add fuel to the fire by arousing the ancient enmity between the Blades and the Greybeards as well?

But, she admitted to herself with a sinking feeling, it had probably been too much to expect that Delphine would not hear about the peace conference. The leader of the Blades was too adept at her craft for her own good.

"Delphine. Esbern," Gallica acknowledging, nodding a greeting to each of them. "I'm glad to see that you're both safe."

"No thanks to you," the Blades-mistress reproached, frowning. "You should have told us.  This concerns Alduin and the dragons.  We have a right to be here."

"There wasn't much time to make the arrangements.  My apologies," Gallica replied diplomatically and then hesitantly continued. "Do you think this is wise, Delphine? I know that little love is lost between the Greybeards and the Blades.  The situation is delicate."

"Pah, those old fools can't keep us out."

 _I'm fairly certain that they could_ , Gallica thought to herself, remembering the day she had stood in the midst of the Greybeards as they formally greeted her as Ysmir, Dragon of the North.

Anyone else would have been killed instantly.  Delphine was formidable and clever, but even she would be no match against the united Voices of High Hrothgar.  Not that the Greybeards would resort to such crude measures, though Gallica suspect the temptation to make an exception for the Blades would be great.

"We need to be here. There is too much at stake," Esbern insisted as he finally caught up, puffing gouts of steam into the air as he caught his breath.

The old man did not look well. The journey up the steps had no doubt been a harrowing one for someone of his age and health and yet here he was.  Gallica softened. They would get nowhere arguing the matter out here in the snow.

"We'll discuss it inside," she told them and turned back up the path, marching between the Imperials and the Stormcloaks towards the entrance to High Hrothgar.

Hopefully, the Greybeards would be in a generous mood and the Blades would summon the sense to keep their mouths shut long enough for Gallica to make their case for them.  She quietly touched the hidden amulet of Talos beneath her breastplate in a silent prayer that it would be so.

~~0~~

"No," said Arngeir immediately as soon as he saw the Blades trooping in behind Gallica. "They have not been invited."

"We have just as much right to be here as anyone else, old man." Delphine growled darkly, her posture immediately becoming defensive. 

 _Well, that didn't take long_ , Gallica thought with an internal sigh and she stepped in between the outraged parties.

"Master Arngeir-," Gallica started, but the aging monk fixed her with a cold expression.

"You would bring them here after all you have learned from us?"

"We have information that is vital to these discussions!" the Esbern bleated, his voice echoing off of the high vaulted stones of the main meditation chamber.

The carvings of dragons that swirled across the walls and pillars looked on, unimpressed.

"Master, I have the utmost respect for your order, but the fate of the world is at stake," Gallica cajoled, gently. "If Jarl Ulfric and General Tullius can put aside their differences to come here, then certainly the Greybeards - and the Blades - can do the same. In the interest of peace."

Arngeir stared at her for a long moment and then sighed. There was a world of weariness and sufferance in that simple long exhale.

"I suppose if we are making a mockery of our traditions already, it makes little difference," the monk replied stiffly. "Very well."

"Thank you," Gallica told him gratefully and then looked around, scanning the sounds and flickering shadows that indicated guests in the wings of the ancient stone monestary. "The others have arrived, I assume?"

"Yes.  We have apportioned out what rooms we have available in the northern wing as quarters for them. As the hour is late, I suppose the talks must begin in the morning. You know the monastery well by now, Dragonborn. It is your home as well as ours.  Show your -- friends -- where they can rest for the night."

Gallica bowed respectfully and glanced pointedly at Delphine to underscore that nothing further was to be said as she moved past the monks towards the back of the sanctuary and the north wing.  

_Do not make me regret this._

As she entered the long hallway, she could tell by which doors had a guard in front of them which were occupied. The Stormcloak and Legion guards watched each other like hawks. Finally, Gallica found space for the Blades and took the last, more cramped of the rooms for herself and Lydia. As she bid Delphine good evening, she saw General Tullius emerge from a room further up the corridor. He looked much the same as when she had last seen him, though his greying hair was possibly a little greyer and his armor was freshly shined. His dark Imperial eyes were the same though, and he gazed at her for a long moment before clearing his throat and walking away towards the main sanctuary. Feeling strangely slighted, Gallica ducked quickly into her own room after Lydia.

"There's dry rations in my pack. Rest up. I want to take a walk and clear my head before I sleep," she told the housecarl after dumping her satchel and held up a hand before the woman could volunteer to accompany her. "Stay. I want to be alone for a while and it's safe enough here. I need to collect my thoughts before tomorrow."

~~0~~

The training yard was Gallica's favorite place at the monastery. Skyrim looked so peaceful from the mountain with the northern lights dancing in sinuous ribbons of green and blue overhead - like a toy version of the world spread across the landscape far below her. Thousands of lives going on quietly and all the joys and sorrows of the world laid out at her feet. It was hard to believe that all of this might soon come to an end if she failed. And so she could not fail.   _W_ _ould_  not. Whether she had chosen the burden or not, it was hers. She might still wish for a lighter one, though. Her retirement was proving to be a bigger ordeal than her tenure in the Legion had ever been. And what if she had stayed in Cyrodiil? Who would be standing on this mountain now, if not her? Or was that simply the onus of prophecy? If she had remained in the Legion, she might simply have been sent here anyway when the war broke out. At least this way she was free to choose her own way.

The crunch of snow behind her made her turn slightly to see a tall figure moving towards her from the dark monastery. By his height and his - by now - all too familiar proud profile, she recognized him immediately.

"Beautiful, is it not?" Ulfric Stormcloak's voice rumbled as he stepped up beside her onto the overlook. He looked out into the darkness for a moment and then back down at her, smiling. "As are other things I could mention."

Gallica shut her eyes tightly in irritation for a quick moment, and then forced herself to be polite.  Ever since she had first met him all those months ago while she was trying to coordinate resources to fight the dragons, Ulfric had been upfront about his interest in her.  Other women might have been flattered at the attention from a Jarl, but Ulfric made no secret of his political aspirations and Gallica wasn't fooled.  She wasn't willing to be anyone's pawn any longer and no handsome face or flattering tongue would change that.

"Jarl Ulfric," she acknowledged, formally. "I'm pleased that you came."

"Of course I did," he replied, dismissively. "I am good to my word, whatever the Empire might say.  But, this is an exercise in your education only, Dragonborn. The Empire will not be content until Skyrim cowers under the Imperial boot once more."

 _This is not about you and your damned civil war, this is about the end of the world_ , Gallica wanted to shout at him, but held her tongue.

As exasperating as she found Ulfric most of the time, the slightest insult was likely to send him packing and then there would be no hope for a truce. It was not that she disliked him, exactly.  She no longer believed that he was the murderous villain that many of the loyalist thought him, though the circumstances involving the former High King Torygg's death were peculiar to say the least.  It was just that he was arrogant and disingenuous, reminding her much of the procession of noblemen's sons her mother had tried to foist on her before giving up the idea of an arranged marriage entirely. It was impossible for her to tell with Ulfric what was sincere and what was political. He was persistent beyond the bounds of all reason, confoundingly so, and she could not decide if that was an admirable quality or an irritating flaw. Possibly both.

"We'll see if that bears out tomorrow. Tullius may surprise you."

He eyed her a little suspiciously at that, shuffling in the snow, but continued.  He chose his words carefully, she noted.  "You have not responded to any of my summons."

"I have been somewhat preoccupied, as you can see," Gallica replied, gesturing at the monastery and smiling to try and put him at ease.

In fact, she had not responded because she could think of nothing she could say that would satisfy him and not result in yet another argument as he tried to convince her to join him against the Legion.  Perhaps he was sincere about wanting something more than that from her, but even discounting her own feelings on the subject, she was in no position to give anyone that at the moment and so it was better just to avoid the conversation.

"A Jarl might expect a reply of some kind, however," he pressed, returning the smile weakly, before raising a heavy eyebrow.  "Unless you have already chosen to side with the Empire in this war."

The tension in his voice rose and she could feel the intensity of his gaze searching her face for clues without even looking up at him. Whatever else anyone might say about him, no one could deny the Jarl of Windhelm was a man of many passions. Gallica had never been able to work out whether this was mere theater - whether she should despise him for his manipulations or feel sorry for him for his rampant idealism.

"This isn't my fight, Ulfric," she replied, as gently as she could. There was no reason to provoke him, especially here and now. "I don't choose sides.  Neither yours nor the Legion's."

"It  _is_  your fight!" the Jarl exploded, scowling, and then lowered his voice as he remembered where he was and who he was talking to.  His tone was insistent. "It's  _everyone's_  fight. You are a Nord, a daughter of Skyrim-"

"I was born and raised in Cyrodiil, as was my father. I had never set foot in Skyrim until two month ago," she reminded him, frowning at the outburst.  "My blood is just as much Imperial as it is Nord."

He shook his head.  "Even so, you are the Dragonborn. You know what that means to our people. You owe it to them to fight for their best interests.  For their freedom."

"I'm here to fight for their  _lives_ , Ulfric," Gallica emphasized, stopping him. "If this truce doesn't happen, if Alduin is not defeated, then they'll be dead and what does it matter if they aren't free then? That's what I care about."

He was silent for a moment, hands clenched, and he turned and paced a few steps before stopping and glaring at her again.

"There are things worse than death," he told her, and she heard the edge of bitterness in his voice.

What had happened to the man that he hated the Empire and the Thalmor so much? He took a step towards her.

"If you will not do it for your people, for Skyrim, then will you do it for me?"

She stared at him in disbelief and then remember to close her mouth.  The audacity of the question floored her.  Ulfric had mentioned before that the Dragonborn at his side and eventually on the throne with him as Queen would be a fitting endgame for the legends.  He had courted her relentlessly the last time she was in Windhelm, but she had always assumed that, at the base of it, he was proposing a political alliance rather than a romantic one.  Could it actually be the other way around?

"How can I answer that?" Gallica began, stuttering as she tried to process the turn the conversation had taken, when Ulfric closed the distance between them.  His fingers laced themselves into the hair that fell around her face and shoulders, the unexpected touch paralyzing her with surprise, and when she did not immediately push him away, he kissed her.

The tang of male scent and the smell of furs, the feel of arms around her after what had been a very long time overwhelmed her. Her body seemed frozen, as if by a mage's spell, with a building warmth in her belly that instantly brought the soldier in her to its senses.  She wrenched herself free, shoving him away as she stepped back out of his reach.  Her breath sighed out hard, her face burning with a tangle of outrage and a desire that she did not understand.

"This is not the time," she said, finally, when she found her voice again.  The words sounded sharp and awkward to her ears.  

By rights, she should have struck him for the imposition and left him there in the snow.  She would never have tolerated such a presumptuous move from any other man.  And yet, as much as Ulfric Stormcloak irritated and exasperated her, she was mortified to realize that there was also a part of her that had wanted him as well.  Quickly, she turned towards the monastery, eager to get away.

"You will defeat Alduin, Dragonborn," Ulfric called at her and she stopped in her tracks, her back to him, her heart pounding. "That is your destiny, your wyrd. I have no doubt. And afterwards, there will be a day when you will no longer be able to remain in the middle of this war. You  _must_  make a choice."  His voice was earnest, too much so to be calculated.  "Fate has bound our destinies together for a reason. For more than one reason, I think.  I will stand with you against the World-Eater.  When the day comes, will you consider standing with me, too?"

The wind howled across the peaks, the sound of dragon wings in the dark. 

 _How can I promise you something that I may not live to deliver on?_ Gallica thought.

For, whether she won or lost, she did not now expect that she would live through the final battle with Alduin.  But, by the same token, what was the harm in considering Ulfric's offer?  It would give him the impetus to cooperate with the truce, at least.

"When Alduin is dead," she replied, slowly, glancing back over her shoulder, "if I still live, I will consider what you have said. And I will make a choice.  I can promise you nothing else."

"Then come to Windhelm, when it is over." Ulfric agreed, a triumph smile spreading across his bearded face. "I will expect you."

Without another word and with a growing uneasiness in her gut, she hurried back to the monastery, lest another moment in his presence cloud her judgment any further.

~~0~~

The monastery, usually chilly, was warm compared to the air outside.  Gallica dropped the hood of her cloak and shooking the frost and snow off of her furs as she headed back towards her room. 

 _I need to sleep_ , she thought.  _This will all be easier to deal with after I've had some rest_. As she turned into the north wing, she spotted General Tullius pacing the wide hallway in front of her room. He looked up almost as soon as she saw him and, jaw clenching, started quickly towards her.

"We need to talk," he growled, lowly as he approached her. "Now."

 _You, too?_ , she thought, wearily. Her nerves were too frazzled for this, but she nodded and he followed her back to the storeroom that was her quarters for the night.

Lydia had been dozing near the brazier and woke with a start as Gallica opened the door, scrambling to her feet. The woman's eyes went large as they moved from her mistress to Tullius.

"If you would excuse us, Lydia. The General has some business that I presume requires privacy," Gallica explained, glancing at Tullius for confirmation. He inclined his head briefly and watched as the housecarl grabbed her cloak and stepped outside the room before relaxing very slightly.

"My housecarl. She is exuberantly loyal. If you questioned her trustworthiness," Gallica explained, and indicated the crate nearest the brazier. "Please. My hospitality, such as it is, is at your disposal."

But the General did not sit. He sniffed and straightened, clasping his hands behind his back and fixing her with the same concentrative frown that every officer in the Legion seemed to develop immediately upon their promotion.

"I don't know whether to be offended by these Greybeards for sticking us all in glorified closets or to admire their practicality," he commented gruffly, by way of opening the conversation.

"They don't get many visitors. This conference is unprecedented, as I understand it. I'm not certain they're well-pleased by the intrusion."

"Neither am I," he huffed, and then smiled thinly. "Well, it's good to know that you still deign to speak with me. I've sent three messages with no reply. I was beginning to think you'd joined the Stormcloaks. But let's cut to the meat of the matter. I need to know where you stand on this civil war before we begin the discussions."

"Where I have always stood, General," Gallica sighed, wearily. "Out of the matter entirely."

He scowled at her, crossing his arms, his posture conveying both disappointment and disbelief.

"There is no 'out of the matter' for a citizen. You either stand with the Empire or against it.  You're a legionnaire; you know better."

"Ex-legionnaire," she reminded and he scoffed, annoyed.

"When the security of the Empire is at stake, there are no ex-legionnaires. Your responsibilities to the Emperor and the citizenry last as long as there is a Legion tattoo on your arm." He continued, tersely, "Your grandfather was General Gallicus, as devoted to the Empire as any man ever to serve. If he were here to listen to this right now-"

The mention of her grandfather's name scorched Gallica like the touch of a blacksmith's heated tongs.  She went silent, feeling her face go rigid, and waited as Tullius sensed the line he had crossed.  He glanced sideways, his expression turning very slightly apologetic.

"I am not my grandfather," she said, after a moment, forcing her tone to remain calm and even. "I do care about the safety of the Empire, General.  I've never expected anything but a life of service to the Emperor since I was small. But Alduin is a threat to the world, not just the Empire or Skyrim. I didn't ask for this, but if I am the only one who can stop Alduin, I have to believe that doing so is a better use of my time than interfering in politics."

"I suppose I can agree with you there," the general growled, rebuked, and glanced at her. "I knew your grandfather. I was a young officer at the time, but I served under him for a few months before I was transferred to my own command. There was never a better soldier, or general. You . . . remind me of him. More than you would like, perhaps."

She nodded, silently, and he sighed.

"I could conscript you, you know, if that's what it takes to make you see sense. It would be easy enough to reactivate your commission. I assume you are still loyal enough not to desert."

"If you were going to do it, you would have already," Gallica retorted, allowing herself a smile. "Besides, you have Rikke. She's capable enough for both of us."

"Rikke is a competent Legate," he mused, "but she isn't you."

Gallica cocked her head at that, but Tullius continued quickly, shaking his head as if to move past the response quickly.

"I mean that you are the Dragonborn. I have no patience for these Nord superstitions, but many would leave the rebels if they knew you stood with the Empire. Ulfric would lose half of his army overnight and any sense of legitimacy with the people."

"I go my entire life never thinking about Skyrim or my Nord heritage and suddenly I'm a folk hero," Gallica quipped, making an attempt at humor to leaven the seriousness of the General's expression.  She liked Tullius on the whole.  Having grown up among Cyrodiil's nobility and also among many legion officers, she understood him better than she did Ulfric. "I'm just a soldier, General.  Who am I to decide the fate of these people?"

"Soldiers have always decided the fate of the people," he replied, sternly. "You're a soldier and a woman of honor, if everything I've heard is correct.  Ignoring your obligation to the Legion and the Empire, Ulfric Stormcloak is a murderer in addition to being a traitor. Could you stand behind a murderer?"

"I can stand behind no one until the dragons are dealt with," she replied firmly, finishing the discussion. "If I live through what is to come, General, I'll make a decision about this war. Until then, I need to remain impartial."

"Then, I will hold you to that. And I will expect you to report to Solitude with that dragon's head, ready to take up the Legion banner," he agreed. He looked tired and she watched him run a hand over his face and through his short, grey hair. Gallica could feel the weight of exhaustion herself. "Get some sleep. You'll need it - for whatever happens tomorrow."

She rose from her seat and nodded politely as he went to the door. He stopped and turned as he reached for the handle.

"Gallica. The Empire needs you.   _I_  need you, as well, if we're to make this work. When the moment comes, remember that," he said and left.

She stared at the spot where he had stood for a moment, and then wearily began to shuck off her armor.

Ulfric. Tullius. She had promised them a decision, if she lived.  To do that, she would have to defeat Alduin and ensure the continuation of the world and that was a going concern. If by some miracle she did survive, the question became who would she choose? Ulfric, chasing his own power? Did the Nords not have a right to stand on their own and shake off the chains of their oppressors if they chose? Tullius, honorable, but locked into the narrative of Emperor and Empire that Gallica thought she had left behind her in Cyrodiil. Did she not have a responsibility as a citizen and a soldier to remain true to her oaths? Both men made good points and neither would stop their pursuit until she had taken a side.

Troubled, she lay down on the bedroll that Lydia had rolled out for her and closed her eyes, willing sleep to come and relieve her temporarily from this nightmare of dragons and politics. By the time her housecarl returned and lay down in her place near the door, Gallica was deep in the scant comfort of her own dreams, waiting to see what the next day would bring.


	2. A Last Request

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which mortality is confronted and an important question is asked.

At first, Gallica was certain that the peace conference would be a lost cause, a waste of precious time.  In the end, however - after what seemed like an eternity of posturing and bickering – a list of resolutions were proposed that made no one happy but which both Ulfric and Tullius could grudgingly accept. Such was diplomacy.

By the Eight, she was tired of talking about this war, but at least now the way was clear for the final conflict. The world hung in the balance.  If they could catch a dragon - if Gallica could prevail against the World Eater - everything would be saved.  That was her responsibility now.  Ulfric and Tullius, both good to their word, had done their part.  Jarl Balgruuf of Whiterun had already sent word ahead to make ready for the ambitious plan to capture the dragon Odahviing.  The rest was up to her alone.

As she finished taking counsel with Delphine and Esbern about what was to come, fully aware that it might be the last time she ever saw them, Gallica said her goodbyes and tried to put any differences they had had behind then.  The Blades already knew that she would not kill Paarthurnax.  The old dragon was more useful alive than dead.  Whatever his crimes in the past, he had paid for them in the thousand years since the dragons had last ruled the skies.  Neither Delphine nor she would budge on that score, however, and so Gallica wished them well, told them that she appreciated their help and their courage, and thanked them. She did not want to go to Sovngard without that at least.

Balgruuf and his men had invited her to accompany them on their return journey to Whiterun, and while she waited in the snow for them to collect themselves for the journey, Tullius approached her with Rikke in tow.  Their discussion of the previous evening returned to Gallica’s mind – _The Empire needs you._ I _need you also_ , he had said – and she tried to smile.  It was unfortunate that she and the general had met under such difficult circumstances.  In a different time and place, they might have been friends or, at least, if her commanders in Cyrodiil had been as astute as Tullius, she might never have left the Legion to begin with.

"It's up to you now, I suppose,” the general began, customarily gruff.  "We'll hold the truce as long as Ulfric does."

"I have no doubt that he will," she assured him, the half-smile becoming a real one as she reached out a hand. "Thank you, General. I recognize that this puts you in a difficult situation. I appreciate your patience. At least someone in this mess is willing to be reasonable."

"Make no mistake, I intend on taking it out on you ten-fold once you re-enlist." The smile he returned was genuine, as he clasped her forearm briefly, but warmly.  His expression grew serious again as he drew back, his brow furrowing again. "Go catch yourself a dragon. When you come back, we have business to attend to. I’ll hold you to your word."

Gallica nodded and Tullius gaze lingered on her for just a moment longer before he turned to.  Rikke paused before following and pressed her gauntleted fist to her chest in a gesture of respect.

“We’re counting on you, Dragonborn,” the Legate told her, fixing her with an intense gaze.  The life of a Legion woman could be lonely, especially if she was an officer.  Gallica had been pleasantly surprised to find Tullius’ second in command here in Skyrim to be a Nord woman.  She hadn’t had the opportunity to get to know Rikke, having only met her a handful of times, but the older woman seemed confident, competent, and smart enough to walk the fine line between culture and political necessity with skill.  The Legate’s voice dropped to low, quick whisper.  “Talos guide you.”

With that, she turned on her heel and hurried the few steps to catch up with the general   Gallica could feel Lydia simmering with questions from where she stood, but the housecarl wisely chose to keep them to herself.  Ulfric, his housecarl Galmar, and his gaggle of chief officers were departing next and she could not help catching his gaze for a long moment as he passed by on the path.  He nodded to her, wordlessly, but his eyes told her more than words could have.  The kiss still hung in her mind – both wanted and unwanted at once.  There were so many questions left unanswered.  Questions that she should have asked well before now instead of trying to avoid them, because, now, it was too late.  She watched until he turned away and then disappeared with his men around a bend in the trail, and felt something deep inside of her begin to ache.

~~0~~

"You are certain this will work?" she asked Balgruuf later, once they had arrived back at Dragonsreach and she had surveyed the preparations his men were making in the enormous outer porch of the Jarl’s hall.

"It worked once before,” the Jarl of Whiterun replied, proudly. "If you can draw the dragon far enough into the hall, then we can catch him."

Gallica ran her hand over the massive wooden struts, thoughtfully.  They were made of the sturdiest oak, cut from trees so massive that they might have been growing from the Mythic Age itself.  Balgruuf was correct.  They had held a dragon fast once before.  Hopefully, the first time had not been a mere fluke.

"Do you think the dragon will cooperate?" Balgruuf prompted after a moment, watching her as she studied the trap.  In her time in Skyrim, Gallica had met most of the Jarls of the Nine Holds, but Balgruuf was the one she was most familiar with and with whom she had the most common cause.  He wanted to stay out of the war and so did she.  Neither the Stormcloaks nor the loyalist supporters seemed willing to let either one of them remain out of it forever.  She hoped that he would find a way to maintain his neutrality anyway, once she was gone.

"Dragons are practical creatures, I've come to understand," she responded to the question, pondering.  "He’ll cooperate as long as he believes it to be in his best interest."

The Jarl grunted his assent, and they turned to walk back into the body of the hall.

"Is there anything else you need?" he asked her. The evening was growing late and the keep was starting to wind down for the night, despite the hustle and tension of the following day’s excitement. Balgruuf seemed confident, but Gallica knew that even he must want to spend this night with his family and his friends, just in case. Anything could happen tomorrow.  His tone went softer.  "I doubt there will be much time for talk once everything is in place."

 _Meaning that you think there's a good chance this is a one way journey, too_ , she thought, chagrined.

"No. I am as prepared as it is possible to be, I think. What happens now, will happen,” she sighed and, because it seemed like the right moment, she turned to him and pressed her fist to her chest, "Thank you, Jarl Balgruuf. None of this would have been possible without your help.  I hope they remember that."

"You are the Dragonborn.  I could do nothing less,” he replied, magnanimously, though he smiled at the praise.  “Glory and honor to you, and when you have vanquished the World-Eater, return to us. There will always be a place for you in Whiterun."

She nodded, clasped his arm in parting, and watched him turn and disappeared into the family wing of the hall. Her own small house – her home here in Skyrim for much of this ordeal – waited. No doubt Lydia would have stirred the hearth to life and it would be warm and welcoming, as it always was. The housecarl was still disappointed that Gallica had ordered her to stay behind tomorrow. Where Gallica was going, no one could follow. She had already made arrangements with Balgruuf's steward to deed the house to the younger woman if she did not return.

Truth be told, Gallica thought it might be better if she did not return. In the stories, the hero fulfills their destiny and disappears from memory. What use was there for a Dragonborn when Alduin was gone?  One way or another, she would walk the fields and forests of Sovngard tomorrow.

As she made her way down from the Cloud district between the houses of normal men and women, tending their children and eating together at their hearths, the ache that had begun in her heart on High Hrothgar began to grow, filling her with a deep sense of loneliness.  It was a sense of separation so complete that she may as well already be dead, a ghost wandering through the streets of the living. In Cyrodiil, she had belonged somewhere - first to her family and then to the Legion, which had been father, brother, and husband to her for the first seven years of her adult life. In Skyrim, after she had buried the last of her family, she had assumed she would finally settle down, perhaps find a husband, and create a life for herself like any other woman. Instead, here she was waiting for what might be her last sunrise – and the world’s last sunrise if she failed.

Her mind drifted back to those she had met and who had become important to her through the course of the last few months.  She tried to imagine where they were tonight and what they were doing.  Balgruuf up in his hall, surrounded by his difficult children and his difficult courtiers, stealing a moment to whisper a prayer to Talos in the darkness of his own room.  Tullius, riding swiftly back to Solitude, calculating how the battlefield had changed, discussing the situation with Rikke, hoping for the best.  And Ulfric. 

Gallica imagined him camped on the side of the road tonight on his way back to Windhelm, pacing inside his canvas tent.  She imagined his hair unbraided and falling long about his shoulders and conjured in her mind the sight of him rubbing the scruff of his short beard and thinking – always thinking.  Was she on his mind, too, that he came so much more vividly to her own thoughts than the others? A idea struck her as she reached the lower quarter. A foolish, improbable, and ill-advised intuition - but it would not let her go.

Instead of turning off to her house, she kept going down the high street and out through the gates.  The stables were dark and shut up for the night, but Gallica needed no help to saddle her horse. A few moments to prepare and she was on the road, the horse’s hooves thudding in the dirt under her as she skirted the great mountain towards the north, standing in the stirrups like a cavalry-woman as she urged the animal onward through the dark.

~~0~~

The moons were high overhead by the time Gallica saw the lonely fires of the Stormcloak camp in the distance. The camp's numbers had swollen since she had last spotted it on the edge of Whiterun's lands some weeks before and she could guess why.  Her intuition about Ulfric's circuitous route, to guard against treachery, had been correct. She rode as near as she dared and then tied her horse in a sheltered alcove of rock. Pulling the hood of her cloak up, she crept upon the camp. Without her armor, she could move as quietly as a wolf.  It was a skill that she had picked up since coming to Skyrim. Ulfric's tent was not hard to spot, being the largest, and his soldiers were mostly in their own bedrolls by now. There were sentries awake, but they were more concerned with the southern periphery and it was simple enough to slip around to approach from the north. She recognized the man guarding the entrance to Ulfric's tent already.

Ralof startled and went for his axe as she stepped out of the darkness from behind the tent next to Ulfric’s, but she lifted her hood enough for him to see her face in the moonlight. Recognition dawned and the familiar Stormcloak soldier relaxed, though she noted his hand still stayed near his weapon. She had come and gone from Windhelm often enough before, and she had seen Ralof there more than once. They were friends of a sort.  He had saved her life on the day they had both nearly been executed.  She had saved his during their escape from Helgen thereafter and seen him safely back to his sister’s home in Riverwood.  They had shared more than one drink in the tavern since then.  He knew that she was no threat to him and that was what stayed his hand and his voice.

"I have business with Ulfric,” she told him, quietly, preempting his question. He cast an uncertain glance back at the tent.  Gallica’s breath caught, watching him deliberate, but his trust in her won out.  He stood aside.  She nodded her thanks, and smiled as she lifted the flap.

"I said I did not want to be disturbed.  Who-” the Jarl growled, ill-temperedly, looking up from his book as she stepped through into the cave of light.

 _Appropriate that the emblem of his city is a bear,_  Gallica thought, briefly, lowering her hood and stopping him in mid demand. Ulfric’s expression changed immediately, dropping from anger to surprise in an instant.  He looked weary, the lines on his face standing out more prominently in the light from the flickering oil lamp that he was reading by.  He was, perhaps, close to twenty years her senior, though it was easy to forget that.  The spirit behind his words and eyes was ageless.

"Dragonborn." He rose quickly and faced her. The tent was chilly and he was still clad in his traveling furs. "How are you here?  I would have thought-"

Wordlessly, she closed the few steps between them, noting that he did not step back from her.  He did not fear treachery from her.  Gallica kissed him, much as he had done to her there on the overlook at High Hrothgar.  Her fingers slid up through the bristle of his beard, feeling their bodies close together. After a shocked second, she felt Ulfric's arms wrap around her and his body leaning into hers to return the kiss fiercely.  She might as well have been hit by lighting.  Her skin heated, her fingers grasped, her heart pounded as a hazy, electric feeling suffused her brain. 

This was what had been missing, these last few difficult years.  This was the reason that Ulfric had always set her teeth on edge, though she had never put it together before now.  He had offered her something that she had desperately wanted and had refused to admit that she needed.  It was not just the physical hunger for touch and for sex.  He wanted her.  He saw her and wanted her when she felt most eclipsed by the immensity of her fate.  The intensity of it all overwhelmed her and Gallica pulled back, gasping, and leaned her forehead against his chest for a moment as she caught her breath.

Ulfric lay his rough chin against her forehead, and she felt his large hand move up to caress her cheek, his thumb wiping away a tear that had gathered in the corner of her eye.

"What does this mean?" he asked, though his voice was soft, without its normal resonance. 

There was no audience here but her and this moment was for her alone.  His touch on her face, gentler than she would have expected, made the last of her reservations on the matter crumble.  Gallica drew in a breath, letting one hand move up to cover his as she tried to find the words to tell him what could not be fully explained in words:  that she did not want to spend another night – her last night – alone in a world in which many people needed and believed in the Dragonborn, but in which there was no one left alive who loved her only for herself - that she did not want to go to whatever fate waited beyond the sunrise regretting a question left unasked.

"Do you love me, Ulfric Stormcloak? If there was no war, if there were no Dragonborn, if there were no Alduin - would you still love _me?_ "

He stared at her for a moment, his blue eyes turning concerned, but his voice was earnest when he replied.

"Yes."

Gallica felt her face trembled, her eyes closing shut tightly with prickling tears, and she pressed her still-gloved hand harder over his. 

"Then love me tonight."

Nothing else needed to be said. She shrugged off her heavy cloak.  His hands moved swiftly and competently, unlacing, exploring her body as he kissed her and helped her slip from her clothes.  Gallica felt the thinking part of her mind sublimate away in the face of a towering, furious need and the instinctual embrace of bodies and clasping of hands. She was aware at one point that there were tears streaming down her face in the darkness and that he was wiping them away, his voice a comforting murmur in the dark.  The words themselves were less important than the comfort they gave.  She slept shallowly, curled tightly against him, never certain of when she was awake and when she was dreaming.

When Ulfric awoke in the dim hours of the morning, Gallica was already gone.  Hanging from the haft of his ax, propped against the tent pole, was an amulet of Talos made of iron so old that its surface was rounded and pitted from countless years of wear.


	3. Homecoming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which good triumphs over evil, and yet questions remain

A day passed while the nine holds held their breaths, and then another. The villages surrounding the mountain of High Hrothgar reported a mass aggregation and scattering of dragons from the peak, but the great black dragon – Alduin, World-Eater, Kingsbane - was not among them. And neither, it seemed, was the Dragonborn.

It was not until the fifth day, when the bards were already starting to compose the tragedy of the hero who had given her life to save Skyrim, that news spread from Ivarstead that the Dragonborn had been spotted descending the mountain. The Jarls breathed a sigh of relief in their keeps, and then attended to their battle plans. With Alduin's death, the truce would not hold forever. General Tullius and Ulfric Stormcloak brooded over their maps and waited, their sentries on alert at the gates. Neither wanted to make the first move before they knew where the Dragonborn stood. Both hoped, at any time, to see her riding through their gates to begin the war in earnest. Only time would tell.

~~0~~

When Gallica staggered down from the Throat of the World - bone-tired, nearly insensible from exhaustion and the gravity of what she had seen and done - she went first to the monastery. The Greybeards took her in, as they always had, and tended her wounds. Dreamlessly, she slept curled by their hearth for more than a day, until hunger woke her.

"Paarthurnax has gone to spread the Way of the Voice among the dragons," she told Arngeir later, as she tore ravenously into the dried meat, bread, and apples he brought her.

"We know," he replied, kneeling down nearby. He moved slowly, as if he had aged in the time she had been gone.  His face was more deeply lined, his expression more worn, but she detected a distinct expression of pity in his eyes when he looked at her and that unnerved her. "Where will you go now, Dragonborn?"

"There will still be dragon attacks for awhile, though I doubt they will be as frequent. I will go where I am needed, I suppose."

"You are welcome to stay here, if you wish," he offered, kindly. "But it has always been my observation that warriors have the most difficulty taking up a monastic life. There is always a part of them that yearns for battle."

Gallica was silent for a moment, and then sighed deeply - disappointed, but unable to contradict the old monk. She had wanted to remain in Sovengarde. Hadn't she done enough? Hadn't she earned her place there and an end to all the trouble and strife? But she had been sent back, and Arngeir was correct. As much as she wanted to retreat from the world, after a time the restlessness that had driven her from her home in Cyrodiil would drive her away from here, too. Her work, as the giant Tsun had said, was not yet complete. She had made promises.

On the day that she left the monastery, Gallica knew that she would likely never return. One did not pick up the boat and carry it with them after crossing the river. It felt odd, as she descended the Seven Thousand Steps and looked out over the small hamlet of Ivarstead, to begin thinking of the future again. In the last few months, she had grown accustomed to thinking only in the present, with the threat of imminent destruction hanging over her head. Her mind would have to readjust to the comparatively mundane threats of war and then the long process of reconstruction.

The villagers did not approach her, and she did not speak to them. They did not ask her what had happened or where she was going. In truth, she could not have said. Gallica simply took the first convenient road out of town and kept walking. She slept when she was tired, foraged when she was hungry, and avoided the main roads where she might be easily spotted. The landscape of Skyrim, which had before seemed only a backdrop to the drama of the living legend she was enacting, took on shape and meaning for her finally and she began to understand in some sub-rational way what Ulfric had meant in all of those speeches. As the Nords shaped the land, so too had they been shaped by it: proud, harsh, beautiful even in savagery. And that was a part of her, too, just as much as the refined and civilized south.

Slowly, it dawned upon her that she was gradually working her way north, towards Windhelm. Did Ulfric even know she was alive? How many days had it been by now? There was a part of her that wanted to see him, to tell him what had happened and feel that there was someone who knew and shared this experience with her. If anyone would understand, it would be Ulfric, with his obsession with legends and heroes. And the memory of the night she had spent with him burned warm in her memory.  But, she was hesitant.  The idea of being greeted in state, as the Dragonborn, made her cringe.  And she was not ready to declare herself for one side in the war or the other.

Finally, a solution occurred to her and she stopped at a house along the road, purchasing an extra set of everyday clothing from a large farm family who stared slack-jawed at her in her dragon-bone armor as if she might slay a dragon in front of them at any moment. She packed up her armor, wrapping it into a tight bundle, and dressed herself like any other common woman. It wasn't long before a merchant approached the city and she fell in with his train, hoping that without the trappings of the Dragonborn, she would not be recognized. The guards scarcely even looked her way.

~~0~~

Windhelm had always made Gallica slightly uncomfortable.  Something about the city seemed dark, forbidding, as if she were being watched by the wights of the thousands of gravestones that were scattered through the streets. The Palace of the Kings only magnified the effect. She knew little of the actual history herself, aside from random stories of dead kings she had picked up from her father as a child and from the bards since she had come to Skyrim, but she would guess that more blood had been spilled on these stones than practically anywhere else in the country.

She rented a room in Candlehearth Hall, ate ravenously, lost herself in the miracle of a hot bath, and then pondered what to do. Now that she was here, she was restless, anxious that someone might recognize her at any moment. She needed Ulfric to see her with his own eyes, not hear it second hand from some lackey or guard and feel obligated to greet her in splendor.  The prospect of meeting him again, too, frightened her. She, who had killed more dragons now than she could count, was afraid of what she might find in the Palace.

There was still time to leave and reconsider, but she felt compelled to stay even as she fretted over what Ulfric's response would be. She did not regret the night they had spent together – quite the opposite – but it _had_ complicated an already complex situation. Already, she felt her thoughts and attitudes shifting to accommodate the place he now held in her heart. In the end, though, she could not stay away.

Ulfric, seated on his High Seat at the head of the hall, was taking council with his general and steward when she entered the Palace. Gallica could not blame the guards for not stopping her. She looked like a servant and they could not be expected to know by name and face every kitchener and floor-scrubber that worked there. Still, if she stayed in Windhelm, she would suggest that a better regiment of guards be trained immediately. No doubt Tullius already had spies in the city.

Galmar was the first to spot her and he stepped forward, his hand immediately going to his weapon. A good housecarl, though from her interactions with him to date she could not say that he was an equally good man.

"Away with you, girl. The Jarl does not accept petitions unannounced," he growled, protectively. “Talk to the steward later if you have need of something.”

"I think Jarl Ulfric will make an exception for me," Gallica replied, loudly and clearly enough for Ulfric to hear.  The corner of her mouth tipped up in the face of the older soldier's frown, and then recognition kindled behind his grey eyes.  Before he could respond, Ulfric stepped down from his throne, pressing past his housecarl to stand face to face with her, staring as if unable to believe that she was there.  For once, it seemed, words failed him.

"Jarl Ulfric," she greeted him, breaking the silence, inclining her head slowly in the customary gesture of respect.

"Dragonborn," he breathed, composing himself. Without taking his eyes off of her, he spoke to his steward. "Cancel any audiences for the rest of the day. I am not to be disturbed."

"Then, the truce," Galmor rumbled, concerned, and looked to Ulfric, "Now that she's here, we should-"

"It will wait," Ulfric replied, a slightly testy edge coming into his voice, his brow furrowing very slightly, though his eyes remained fixed on her. Gallica saw the bear-helmed general scowl, but he knew his leader well enough to keep his peace.  Ulfric gestured for her to follow him.  "Come."

Gallica followed, hurrying to match his long strides, out of the hall, up the stairs towards the private wing of the Palace and into a large room.  Ulfric’s private quarters. Almost before the door was shut entirely, she was enveloped into a tight embrace that nearly lifted her from the ground.  He kissed her, fiercely, and then leaned his forehead to hers, his huge hands pressing to either side of her face.

"I was beginning to think . . ." he began, somewhat hoarsely and then shook his head. "But here you are."

"I am," she replied, her heart beating faster with a furious, wild happiness. He held her at arm's length, looking at her and searching her face as if still not entirely certain she was real.

"And you were victorious? The World-Eater is dead?"

"He is."

"Talos be praised," Ulfric breathed, relieved, pulling her back into a crushing hug. Gallica laughed - how long since she had actually, genuinely _laughed_ _-_ and felt the tension of the last few weeks drop away from her. She let him pull her by the hand over to a set of chairs by the hearth."Tell me everything.  Every detail."

"It's a long story," she warned, trying to contain her smile as he stirred the embers to life and sat down, leaning forward onto his knees and peering at her eagerly.

"I want to hear all of it."

And so she told him everything - of capturing Odahviing in Dragonsreach, of flying to Skuldafn, of Sovngarde, the ancient heroes, and the battle.  He sent for mead and food for them, and listened in rapt attention as she told the tale.  By the time she was done, the windows had long since gone dark with night and they had moved to sprawl more comfortably across his bed, watching the shadows flicker among the wooden beams of the rafters.  Her fingers spread idly on the solid plain of his chest and felt a hard, familiar lump. Gently, she disentangled the amulet of Talos from the neck of his tunic – the very token she had left for him before leaving his tent in the wee hours before dawn.  Her fingers caressed the smooth, pitted edges, remembering.

"It's not an amulet of Mara," Ulfric observed, his larger hand moving to cover hers and the amulet, "but, more fitting, I think."

"It was my father's,” Gallica told him, feeling the small twinge of loss that always accompanied the memory of her father – lost in battle these many long years.  He was a giant of a man in her memory, blond and bearded and strong.  The amulet had been a secret shared with her and her brother.  Though he served the Legion, though he had loved their mother – an Imperial noblewoman – and raised his children in Cyrodiil, he had never forgotten in his heart that he was a Nord.  And he had wanted his children to know what that meant, too.  “I think he would approve. He always said that a man who loses his history has lost his future also."

"Then he was a true Nord. As are you."

She raised herself up onto one elbow, laying her chin on his chest and looking up at him, as he toyed with a twist of her hair.  His blue eyes were soft here, alone with her, and she smiled.

"What happens now?" she asked

"You stay here, with me. And one day, we rule Skyrim together, a High King and Queen unlike any ever seen before. I do not want to wake up to anymore empty beds."  He pulled her tightly against him, amorously, almost possessively, as if afraid she might slip away again.

After they had made love, she lay in the dark, listening to his breathing slow and deepen. There was still the matter of the war. But maybe, with her help, they could turn the truce into a lasting peace. Maybe she could be the bridge, Nord by heritage, Imperial by birth, that could bring both sides of the conflict together. As she snuggled into the warmth of the bed, her arm draped around her lover, she hoped so. For everyone's sake.


	4. All's Fair in Love and War

 

 

For a day, everything was perfect. Gallica could not remember how long it had been since she had spent a full day out of armor, and she luxuriated in having the leisure to simply read while Ulfric was attending to the everyday duties of running a city. Before despairing of producing a daughter that would grow up to be a fine Imperial lady, her mother had insisted that Gallica be given a classical education, and what had been near torture then - all those dusty tomes of history - was a rare pleasure now.

On the second day, the gifts began to arrive. They were small things at first, mere tokens. A carved and gilded drinking horn from a wealthy family of Windhelm here, a dragon-pommeled dagger from a wealthy burgher there.  She tried to accept them graciously, but when a helm arrived that would not have been out of place in a Jarl's treasure room, however, Gallica balked.

"Where in Nirn did it come from?" she asked, staring dumbfounded at the jeweled and intricately decorated thing in her hands.

"The Jarl of Dawnstar, I believe," Ulfric replied, mildly, sounding pleased. She turned it in her hands, feeling its weight. Too heavy, too  _pretty_  to fight in. It was the most expensive thing she had ever held in her hands and the idea of it made her uncomfortable. And then a thought struck her.

"How did they know where-" she began, and then looked up at Ulfric, frowning. "You told them where I was."

"I sent riders out after you arrived," he agreed.  "The other holds deserved to know about your victory. You are quite a well-known figure by now, Dragonborn, and the Jarls will need to look to their own defenses."

_And you wanted them to know that I came here to you first_ , she continued in her head, but pursed her lips to keep that and several other ill-timed comments from coming out. So, everyone in Skyrim knew that she was in Windhelm at the Palace of the Kings.  _That_  was not going to go over well in Solitude. And that was exactly how Ulfric had wanted it, if she had to guess. He must have sent the riders out almost as soon as she had arrived.

She stared at him for a long moment, feeling Galmar watching her like a hawk from nearby, and set the helm down with a sigh. It was vexing that Ulfric had not consulted her first, but with everything going so well otherwise she did not want to make a scene.  Especially in front of his household.

"Is there anything else I should be aware of?"

"Now that the dragons have been dealt with, we will need to tend to the offensive before winter sets in in earnest. I want you at the planning table with me. Your experience with Tullius and with Whiterun will be an asset," Ulfric replied, smiling at her.

"Ulfric," Galmar interjected, before she could level her own objection, "should we put so much trust in a foreigner?  Has she even sworn her service to you yet?"

Gallica kept her expression carefully guarded as she met the old soldier's frowning gaze. Of course he was suspicious of her. Why wouldn't he be? There was clearly more to it than that - jealousy, perhaps - but it would not improve the situation to challenge him directly. She wouldn't be cowed by bluster, though he did have a point.  She remained silent, waiting for Ulfric's reply.

"In time, old friend," the Jarl replied, peaceably. "The Dragonborn has come here in good faith."

"Or else as a spy," the housecarl grunted, suspicious, his lip curling.

"We two were also sworn to the Imperial Legion once, Galmar. All of us standing here have seen the true face of the Empire," Ulfric replied. While his expression was calm, there was a note in his voice that brooked no further argument. The housecarl stepped back, but Gallica could see his mind working, calculating, waiting for another chance to reason with his liege.

"Now, before dinner, there is something I want to show you." Ulfric said to her, and she followed him, casting a glance back to catch Galmar's scowl before they left the hall.

~~0~~

"Galmar is a good man. And a good soldier. He has a point," the Jarl said, a few moments later, as they strolled the halls of the Palace, "There will be questions. We should put those to rest as soon as possible and make it clear that you stand under my banner. Galmar's concerns I allow because of his service and the length of our friendship, but I will not have others questioning your loyalty."

Gallica frowned, uncomfortably, gazing straight ahead as she tried to quell the sudden return of the uncertainties she thought she had left behind her. She supposed it was unavoidable, and she knew she would have to take a stand eventually, but this seemed rushed and she was not pleased to have decisions about her life made for her.

"If you trust me, then what questions can there be?"

"I trust you with my life, my heart," Ulfric replied, earnestly.  He meant this, she knew, and that made her feel a little better. Before she could relax, however, he continued, "But this is about more than just us. The people will believe what they can see. They need their pageantry and their stories, and I need my future queen and my right hand to be above reproach in their eyes. The men you command must know that your orders come from me."

"I am not anxious to command anyone," Gallica replied, uneasily, and he stopped, putting his large hands on her shoulders.  She looked up into his face, noting his blue eyes, his handsome features, and the way that seeing him made her thrill and tense at the same time.  He smiled at her, brushing her cheek.

"I have fought in wars since I was old enough to hold a sword. I weary of war, too. But that is why I know we have tocontinue fighting. I have held too many dying men in my arms in foreign lands. I'm sure that the same is true of you.  That is not the world I want to leave to our children one day."

Gallica could not help but return the smile at that.  The idea of peaceful family life with him warmed her.  She touched his fingers for a moment, and then sighed.

"There must be a way to broker a peace," she urged. "You saw for yourself at High Hrothgar that Tullius is not unreasonable.  There is a possibility-"

"I am done speaking with General Tullius," Ulfric replied, with a disgusted huff, and Gallica realized too late that bringing up the General had been a mistake.  

Ulfric had not forgotten his humiliation at Helgen.  He would press onward in this war just to spite Tullius, Gallica was sure of it.  She considered pursuing the issue, but though better of it. They were still learning each other, but she was beginning to get a feel for Ulfric's moods.  Arguing with him directly about anything was unproductive. He could be persuaded, but indirectly.  Galmar, she had observed, was good at that and she could learn from the example.  It had to seem like Ulfric's own idea. She could remember her mother, stubborn and stalwart Imperial lady that she had been, saying something similar about her father. So she decided to take a leaf from her mother's book for once. There would be other opportunities to make her point.

The western parapet of the Palace looked out over the city of Windhelm and the rugged terrain of Eastmarch. There was snow on the wind, and the hazy sun was setting over the distant mountains, casting a grey-golden glow over the world.

"This is what we fight for," Ulfric said, gesturing towards the scene.

Gallica did not reply. She was too ill at ease already to stomach any more of his dogma tonight, though the vista was pretty enough.  She tried to focus on that. Ulfric surveyed the mountains for a moment longer and then turned to her, his expression warm - their earlier discussion already forgotten.  

"With all of these gifts arriving at the palace, I felt that you should have one from me, too.  I won't be upstaged."

She smiled at the joke and watched as he reached into his belt pouch and pulled out a small object - a ring, Gallica saw, as he opened his large hand to show her.  The light from the sunset glimmered off of the intricately tooled gold, illuminating insets of garnet and sapphire that formed a complex pattern around the band.

"This was my mother's, given to her at her wedding by my father. I had planned to wait until our own wedding to give you this, but the official ceremony will have to postponed until after the fighting is done. Since you have already given me your token, I wanted you to have one from me."

His expression was eager for her approval, and Gallica held out her hand, allowing him to slip the ring onto her finger.  It was very slightly tight, but not uncomfortable.

"It's beautiful," she said, a lump forming in her throat as she looked down at the bauble.  Her hand was still clasped warmly in his, and she squeezed his fingers.  It _was_ beautiful.  It meant something to him, and that meant that she meant something to him.  And so why did that make her feel so strange? "Are you sure? This all seems to be happening so quickly."

"I don't need more time to know what I already feel." Ulfric told her, slipping his hands around her waist and grinning at her. "Besides, you're a hard catch, Dragonborn.  Now that I have you, I'm not letting you go."

Something about that phrase prickled in the back of Gallica's mind, but she put it aside as an artifact of their earlier conversation. Instead, she smiled and leaned against him, letting him kiss her and then put his arm around her as they watched the sun dip below the mountains. Perhaps he was right and their fates  _were_  bound together, and that was why it all seemed to be falling into place so quickly.  The strangeness of it was just her own fears and guarded suspicions rebelling against the idea of happiness.  For how could something that made her feel so wonderful be wrong?

~~0~~

The following day brought dark clouds and wind, a heaviness to the air, but no proper storm. Gallica woke feeling restless, and prowled the hall until finally settling herself to the task of unpacking and checking over her armor. She had wiped the gore from it before leaving the mountain, but there were always straps and loose rivets to replace. The dragonbone had held up well, better than steel, but it would need a proper cleaning to keep it in shape. The exertion would keep her mind and body occupied and off of other things.

She had just finished oiling and testing the last strap on her cuirass when a servant informed her that Ulfric had sent for her. Wiping her hands, she made her way down to his study, mostly converted now to a war room. As she approached, however, hearing the susurrus of the conversation within, she stopped in her tracks and listened. The two men were discussing Whiterun, and she felt something in her chest constrict as she realized what was being said.

"You think I need to send Balgruuf a stronger message," Ulfric's voice echoed.

"If by message, you mean shoving a sword through his gullet." That was, of course, Galmar.  His voice was low, a sullen growl.

Ulfric seemed to hesitate for a moment, but continued, "Taking his city and leaving him in disgrace would send a more powerful statement, don't you think?"

"So, we're ready to start this war in earnest then?"

"Soon."

A pause and then Galmar's voice again.  "I still think you should take them all out like you did-"

At that point, Gallica had heard enough.  She had known that Ulfric and Balgruuf had a history together.  She had known that Balgruuf was in an unenviable position between the two powers in Skyrim and that this could not last.  But the casual way that Ulfric and Galmar talked of killing or deposing the Jarl of Whiterun - who had gone out of his way to help her during the dragon crisis - angered her.  She forced the feeling down, gritting her teeth as she stepped through the short corridor and into the war room.  _This is not the time, this is not the place,_ she told herself, repeating it like a mantra in her mind.  This was the way of war, she would do her position no good to explode over tactical considerations, but mostly she did not want to give Galmar the satisfaction of seeing her lose her temper. Ulfric turned to her and smiled as she approached, and with great effort she arranged her features into a tight-lipped response.

"There you are. I see your morning has been productive," he said, fondly, gesturing at the oil cloth she had tucked into her belt and forgotten. Galmar's face remained a mask.  Silently, he crossed his thick arms.

"You sent for me," Gallica reminded, tersely. Ulfric was not a fool, she knew. She saw the subtle shift in his expression as he recognized her discontent, and glanced at his housecarl.

"A moment, Galmar. I would speak with the Dragonborn alone."

The soldier grimaced, a comment to himself, but he stepped towards the door.  He cast a warning glance Gallica, as if to remind her that he was still watching her. She returned it almost belligerently, feeling the blood begin to surge in her temples. But the Legion had cured her of the habit of lashing out and so she waited.

"You're angry," Ulfric ventured, once the door was closed.  He did not seem disturbed, but Gallica knew that he must be. "Tell me what troubles you."

_Here we go_ , she thought, and drew in a breath.

"When were you going to tell me about your plans for Whiterun?" she asked, cutting directly to the point.  

Ulfric's expression, to his credit, did not change.  He shrugged.

"As soon as a firm plan was made."

He was acting as if this was nothing, just run of the mill business, but Gallica knew that this was not the whole story.  He wanted her tactical experience and her clout on his side.  He would not have left her out of the meat of this discussion about Whiterun unless he was hiding something from her.  This was too calculated to be simply an accident.

"You know that I'm a Thane of Whiterun. By the Eight, Ulfric-"

"Nine," he reminded her, calmly enough, but she could see an unpleasant fire beginning in his eyes.  Gallica stared back at him, refusing to back down this time.

"I will participate in nothing that directly threatens Jarl Balgruuf's life or that of his family.  You should know that," she told him, finally, as the tension in the air increased.

"Divines willing, you won't have to," Ulfric acknowledged and shook his head. "Galmar believes a sterner lesson to the other Jarl's will be necessary, but I would rather solve this without bloodshed. Balgruuf is an honorable man. I was hoping his respect for you would convince him to see sense."

"And if he doesn't take your side in this? If he prefers to remain out of it altogether?"

"That is no longer possible."  He leveled a pointed glare at her.  "For either of you. The Empire is bringing all of its weight to bear on Whiterun. How long before Balgruff capitulates to their demands?  As his Thane, it speaks well of you that you would leap to his defense, but if he will not support us then he is against us.  I have no wish to see him struck down, but this is war.  No one can fault you for allowing your loyalty to your king and betrothed husband to supersede your loyalty to Balgruuf."

His voice had changed from the casual tone he normally used with her to the growl of a Jarl addressing a subordinate. She sensed how close the conversation was to spinning out of control, and she tried to pull herself in.  _Patience_ , she thought,  _diplomacy._

"That is what I wanted to speak to you about, in fact," Ulfric continued. "We can delay no longer. The Empire is already moving their troops. Things are coming to a head. I need your talents on the battlefield. And so, it is time to make your loyalties known publicly and prepare the offensive."

"Let me go to Solitude. Let me speak with Tullius and convince him to extend the peace," Gallica suggested, the words coming out quickly, but they were struck down.

"No!" the Jarl barked at her and she could see he was truly angry now.  He shook his head, scowling. "The time for talking is long over with. You promised me an end to this fence-sitting, Dragonborn. If you stand with Skyrim - with me - then stand."

"Dragonborn," she nearly spat, her lips curling bitterly as she paced a few steps away from him, trying to control her temper in the face of him losing his.

If she never heard that title again, it would be too soon. She was sick to the bone of the Dragonborn, of dragons, of being a pawn in everyone's game.  

She turned again, feeling her face flushing with frustration.  "I have a name, Ulfric."

"An Imperial name," he replied and this pushed her anger over the edge.

" _My_  name! My grandfather's name. I am not ashamed of it!" she exploded, taking a step towards him, her finger stabbing through the air like a lance.  Her breath came heavy and she felt her shoulders tensing as she shook her head, fuming. "Is it me you want, Ulfric? Or just the Dragonborn?"

"You forget yourself."

His response was quiet, but as icy as the north wind. They glared at each other, unable to overcome the stalemate, until she turned away and shook her head - so angry that she could feel her muscles strain from where she had held them tense for too long.

"This is difficult for you.  You grew up in Cyrodiil.  You swore oaths to the Emperor, and you are too young to remember what he cost us.  I understand. But, you are here now and I must know. Will you stand with me?" he asked finally, his voice gentling a little as he stepped towards her.  He was making it personal again.  It was always personal with Ulfric, whatever the situation.

"With  _you,_ " she replied, not looking at him, even when she felt his hand rest on her shoulder, "yes."

"Then trust me, heart," he cajoled. She let him turn her and lay a kiss on her brow. "I ask nothing of you that I would not do myself."

_That is hardly comforting_ , Gallica thought, but maybe unjustly. The energy to sustain the argument was draining out of her, though, and she sighed. Love was not turning out to be a bed of roses, but neither was she young or foolish enough to think it was supposed to be entirely bloodless. She returned his embrace with real feeling, and then stepped back.

"I need to take a walk. Clear my head."

"Speak with Galmar when you have a moment. You will be working under him in the field for now and I believe he has a task for you. A sort of initiation," Ulfric replied, smiling,as if they had not been arguing moments before.

Gallica nodded and left, heading towards the great doors at the end of the hall and ignoring the hulking, bear-helmed general as she passed by. There would be time enough to deal with him when she had had some fresh air. Perhaps she had been cooped up inside for too long. The chill, salt breeze of Windhelm would help with that, and perhaps take the sting out of falling into the shadow of her own legend even with the man she was growing to love.


	5. The Test

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which resolves are tested and conflict becomes unavoidable

No one could say that Windhelm had not crumbled grandly over the years. That was one of the starkest differences between the former capitol and the Imperial-backed capitol of Solitude, with its neatly laid out streets and army of workers engaged in perpetual repairs. As much as Gallica found Windhelm to be a confusing labyrinth of a place - the living working and sleeping practically on top of the dead - there was a sort of austere elegance to that as well. The city owned its history. It made no apologies for its past. Much like the Stormcloaks themselves.

The markets were still busy, citizens trying to get their shopping done before the incoming snow. Dressed simply as she was, Gallica could blend in and simply be another shopper in the morass and not the Dragonborn. Only a few denizens of Windhelm knew her well enough to recognize her without the trappings of her title, and she found it comforting to be just another member of a crowd again. Once the war was won, once Ulfric was king, she suspected that would be over with for good. There was not a chance in Oblivion that a queen would be able to pass unnoticed, even in the unlikely event that Ulfric would let her roam freely and alone, and she would have other duties to the court besides to keep her busy. Gallica felt claustrophobic just thinking about it.

And, Ulfric could still easily lose. The Empire was not the force it had once been, but she knew better than to underestimate Tullius - and the Stormcloaks were more of an organized rabble than a real army. Even with the influx of new blood Ulfric hoped for now that she was here, even with her help, nothing was certain. It might just as easily end with both of them back in front of a headsman's block. Wouldn't that be a nice bit of poetry - a tragic romance for the bards to sing about.

A few flakes of snow were starting to drift down from the steel-coloured sky, and Gallica knew she should be headed back. She had wandered close to the Grey Quarter and already the lanterns were being lit down the dark, sloping road. The elves were finding their way home after the day's labors, trailing down into the shadowy street like crimson-eyed shadows. Even in Cyrodiil, the races tended to form communities among themselves, but it disturbed her to see a city so completely and oppressively segregated. Another thing she was going to have to discuss with Ulfric eventually.

She didn't think that Ulfric shared the general hatred of all elves that seemed common among his followers, but neither did he condemn it and that was a problem. She could appreciate the precariousness of his position, balancing the attitudes and loyalty of his Stormcloaks with policies that would not alienate too many people, but it still chaffed at her. There was political expediency and then there was the right thing to do. And they were not always the same.

"Gallica?" a Dunmer woman said, pausing at the entrance to the road.

It took a moment for Gallica to recognize the Dunmer as the young woman she had stood up for in the main square when she had first come to the city before she had become widely known as the Dragonborn. A lifetime ago it seemed now.

"Suvaris!" she acknowledged, surprised, but pleasantly so. It was nice to hear her name on someone's lips again She smiled. "It's good to see you. How are you?"

"Getting by," Suvaris replied casually with a shrug.

The elven woman was close to her own age and Gallica had made a point to check in with her now and then when she was in the city – to hear the latest news and also simply to talk. Suvaris had a wit to her that Gallica could appreciate. The Dunmer smiled back.

"And you - you've done well for yourself. If I had known you were the Dragonborn to start with -"

"I'm not one for grand titles," Gallica interupted her, quickly, embarassed. Suvaris arched her brow humorously over a red eye, smirking.

"Oh? I had heard differently. Should I curtsy now? Or should I wait till after the coronation?"

As far as Gallica knew, the romantic relationship between her and Ulfric was not common knowledge. Had Ulfric let that bit of information slip as well? Or was it simply assumed?

"How is it that everyone seems to know more about my life than I do?" Gallica replied, trying to continue the banter, though her easy tone had fallen a little.

"It isn't true, then?" the dark elf asked, cocking her head slightly, curious. "You aren't betrothed to the Jarl?"

"Nothing is certain yet," Gallica replied, her embarrassment deepening. Though, now that she wore his ring, that was not entirely true. She changed the subject. "How are things in the Grey Quarter? Rolff hasn't been bothering you again, has he?"

Suvaris made a face as if she had bitten into an unripe apple.

"Of course he has. Not as much as he did before you knocked him on his loutish head, of course, but he and his friends are back to trolling the streets at night, yelling at people and keeping everyone awake. Especially lately. Short tempers, short memories. Comes from shortness in other areas, I suspect."

Both women giggled at the joke, and Gallica arched an eyebrow.

"I suppose I'll have to have another word with him."

"That's kind of you, but as much as I'd enjoy seeing him get another lesson in manners - well, it's just treating the symptoms, not the disease, isn't it? He's hardly the only one." Suvaris expression had gone serious now.

Though she could make light of it sometimes, the Dunmer's situation in Windhelm was not a joke. Ulfric had let the xenophobia in his city fester over the years until, now, any elf that was not indoors by dark had an even chance of being accosted and berated. The Argonians had it even worse. They were scarcely permitted inside the walls at all.

"I know," Gallica replied, nodding sympathetically. "If there's trouble, get word to me. I'll do what I can. And I'll speak to Ulfric about it. If he would be king, then he can't afford to leave a situation like this unanswered among his people."

"I'm not sure I'm what the Jarl has in mind when he thinks about 'his people'," Suvaris replied, sighing. "But thank you."

They said their partings and Gallica turned back towards the Palace. It would be some time before she could bring up her concerns about the Grey Quarter to Ulfric.  More and more she could sense he was in no mood to discuss anything but war.  But Suvaris was a friend and her people were suffering unjustly.  They could not appeal to Ulfric, but she could.  In these harsh lands and difficult times, sometimes it was the collaboration of women that made the difference. In the meantime, though she was not looking forward to her conversation with Galmar, she could at least warn the housecarl to keep a handle on his younger brother.

It hadn't surprised her to learn that Rolff was related to Galmar Stonefist. Both brothers had a brutish air to them, though Galmar at least had a quicker mind than most gave him credit for. That family seemed determined to plague her. Still, perhaps a different tactic was in order. It would please Ulfric if she attempted to get along with his general and closest friend and you could catch more flies with honey than with vinegar. After the scene in the study earlier, she felt the need to make a gesture of compromise if only to shut Galmar up about the possibility of her being a spy.  She needed them both to listen when she dissuaded them from attacking Balgruuf and the best way to do that was to forge bridges rather than burn them.

"I swear that my life was less complicated when there was just the dragons to worry about," Gallica muttered to herself, as she made her way back to the palace and prepared herself for bad company.

~~0~~

The household was in the process of gearing up for the evening meal, and so eventually Gallica found Galmar near the guards' quarters, having just washed up. The housecarl was Ulfric's age, but thicker of build and his knotted beard was whitening from blond to grey. He continued drying his hands as she entered the lower hall and watched her impassively, waiting for her to make the first move.

"I hear that you have something for me.  What is this 'initiation' you wanted to speak to me about?" Gallica asked, making an attempt to keep her tone polite.

She disliked the housecarl for his aggressive nationalism and surly brutishness, but she had been wrong about people before. He was dedicated to Ulfric. They had an interest in common there at least. If she became Ulfric's queen, he would be responsible for her safety, too. And so, it would hurt nothing to try to make some sort of peace with him.  The Nord general surveyed her with a sardonic expression that immediately put her on edge.

"Ulfric told us quite the story about you. If you made it through Helgen and all of that business with the dragons, you might be worth something to me. But I want to see for myself."

 _Yes, because saving the world counts for so little these days_ , Gallica thought, poisonously, but kept her peace. The Legion was full of officers like Galmar and she'd lost the habit of argument back in her first few weeks as a recruit. Let him posture if it made him feel important. He would know better soon enough.  

The old bear folded his arms, critically. "First, tell me why a foreigner like you wants to fight for Skyrim anyway.  Why not just slope back off to your privileged life in Cyrodiil?"

"I made a promise to someone," Gallica replied, tightly, letting her expression dare him to press her further about it.

Argument was one thing, but he was not her superior and there was a limit to what she would tolerate. Galmar's smirk fell, and she knew he understood well enough who she meant.

"You willing to die for him? You might have to," he inquired seriously, dropping his attitude in order to reinforce the importance of the question.

"Yes," she replied, succinctly, without flinching.

"More importantly, are you willing to kill for him?" Galmar narrowed his eyes at her, as if assessing her carefully. "Ulfric says you left the Legion, same as us. He says you're a true Nord in your heart, your raising not withstanding. But I wonder, with those Imperial airs of yours. You think you can run a sword through a man wearing Legion colors? Because - Ulfric's woman or not - I'll gut you myself if you lose your nerve in the thick of a battle."

The question hit home harder than Gallica wanted to admit – she had never considered what it would feel like to kill another legionnaire and the thought chilled her - but she forced herself to swallow her resentment at Galmar's tone and at the question's implications.

"I'm a soldier, just as you are. I'll do what I have to do." She shook her head to move past that line of questioning. "Tell me about this initiation."

"Fair enough. Before I trust you on the field, I need to see what you're made of. So, I have a little test for you."

"Fine, let's get it over with."

"That's more like it," Galmar responded, grinning this time. "You may not be a waste of our time after all, Dragonborn. I'm sending you to Serpentstone Island. There's a rock formation there, put up by the old Nords - draws Ice Wraiths to it for some reason. Go there. Kill an Ice Wraith, and bring me back the teeth. Do that, and I'll know what I need to know about you."

It was a ridiculous task – a waste of her time and talents. Gallica knew it and she could see that Galmar knew it, too. She had a mind to refuse, but the officer in her realized that this was not about the ice wraiths. It was about discipline and obedience. The greatest fighter in all the world would be no good to an army if she couldn't be trusted to execute her orders. And it was Galmar - not Ulfric - who would be risking his life with her on a battlefield.  The Stormcloak general was making a point – a smart one, though she hated to admit it. Gallica nodded.

"Alright. When the snow clears, I'll be on my way. Before I go, however," she said, shifting her posture to a less rigid position in order to underscore that this was personal now rather than official, "you should know that your brother is making a nuisance of himself in the Grey Quarter again. You might want to have a talk with him before he gets himself hurt."

"The day those greyskins get bold enough to do anything about it will be the day the sun rises over the western mountains," the old soldier snorted derisively, and then shot her a sullen glare. "Unless they get you to do it for them again. I heard about that beating you gave Rolff. Stepped up and got what he asked for that time, I'll admit, but let me hear about you threatening my kin again and you'll wish you'd stopped at fighting dragons."

The Nord looked her up and down, his lip curling slightly.

"The rest of Skyrim may be impressed with the Dragonborn - Ulfric, too - but I'm not afraid of you.  As long as you're loyal to Ulfric, we have no quarrel.  But if you turn traitor on us, you'll bleed and die just like any of those milk-drinkers the Empire sends out to do their dirty work for them."

"I'm not the only one who'll bleed and die," Gallica retorted, her voice grinding into a low growl before she could stop it.

She saw the housecarl tense, his blue-grey eyes flash under thick brows. It would do no good to fight about it. She shook her head before turning sharply to go.

"Just keep your brother out of the Grey Quarter, Galmar, or it's not going to go well with him. It might be someone with less restraint that belts some sense into him next time while I'm out on a fool's errand."

"Watch yourself," he called after her.

Gallica paused, turning and fixing him with what she knew must be a fierce glare - trying to determine if his words were a threat or not. Galmar's expression was hard; his eyes were like the steel grey points of sword blades leveled at her heart.

He lifted his chin, aggressively, grunting.

"Try not to die out there on the ice."

It might as well have been a curse. Gallica would not rise to it. Without a reply, she stalked back off towards the main hall, feeling an impending headache begin to throb behind her eyes. There was something about the housecarl – the way he talked, the way he seemed to find fault with her very existence – that cut directly through her diplomacy and pulled a reaction from her, but she would not give him the satisfaction of drawing her into a fight. That was, she knew, probably his aim: to see if she could hold her temper.

Such a  _dovah_  she had become over the last few months, Gallica reflected. She had learned to Shout like a dragon, and also to growl like one.

~~0~~

By the time the weather cleared, Gallica's armor was repaired and her gear was packed. She had a map and a bearing to find Serpentstone Island and everything she could think of that she would need to survive the bitter cold of the frozen northern sea. While she was not looking forward to the journey ahead, she was beginning to find the prospect of getting out of Windhelm for a few days appealing.

Apologies had not been made after their argument. Ulfric had behaved as if it had never happened and that both comforted and discomforted Gallica in different ways.

"Come back to me," he told her affectionately, standing with her in his quarters before she left.

"I'm a Nord, as you say," she told him, trying to smile for his benefit. "Ice and snow are in my blood. I'll be back in a few days."

The way he smiled at her melted her heart. It seemed old-fashioned and sentimental to think of it that way – and the soldier in her scoffed at her softness – but she could not stay angry with Ulfric. Since coming to Windhelm, she often felt that she was dealing with two different men. Jarl Ulfric was as insufferable as ever. He could infuriate her to no end. But, it was harder to maintain her anger against the other Ulfric, the man who looked at her as if she were the only woman in the world, who teased her and toyed with her hair in private, and whom it was getting harder and harder as each day passed to imagine her life without. And so, because nothing was certain and because she loved him, she accepted his embrace and his kiss warmly and bid him goodbye with real feeling.

The countryside beyond the gates was layered with a thin blanket of snow, the dark trees and rocks laced with white. Gallica's breath hung in the early morning air, but she was warm enough inside her armor and furs. With winter coming on, at least, the ice would be firm, less likely to crack and plunge her down to a frozen grave.

It was good to be out in open country again, though. She quick-marched through the morning to keep her body temperature up.  The exertion in her muscles and the miles of wilderness passing under her boots began to bleed away the restless claustrophobia that had set in on her in Windhelm. With her body occupied, her mind was free to wander.

Whether it had been her original intent or not, she had sided with Ulfric. He had seen to it that everyone of import knew where she was, and so it would be assumed that she was a Stormcloak sympathizer regardless of her true feelings.

Whatever her true feelings on the subject were.

There were times when she could almost believe in Ulfric's cause. Perhaps the Empire  _was_  dying without a Septim on the throne. Perhaps Skyrim, drained by Cyrodiil beyond all tolerance, had a right to shuck off its oppressors. Perhaps the loss of Talos' favor was too much. Of all people, she could understand what that was like. She had lost the bulk of her family to the War and its aftermath. Grandfather, father, brother – even her mother, who had died of a complaint of the heart after hearing of her brother's passing. How many good people had to bleed their lives out for the Empire before it was enough?

Even as she entertained those seditious thoughts, Gallica was aware of her own deep-seated unease. She had taken oaths. As a legionnaire, she had promised to defend the Emperor and the Empire – not just until it was no longer convenient, but for as long as she lived. Did that not mean something? And it was easy enough to see what the Thalmor hoped would happen - the Empire crippled after wasting resources on quelling a rebellion, Skyrim in chaos. With Tamriel divided, the Dominion could descend upon them and sweep them all out like soiled floor-rushes.

 _If your grandfather were here, what would he say?_  Tullius asked in her mind.

Gallica had never met her namesake. He had been killed somewhat poetically while holding a line in the final battle of the Great War several months before she was born, but his shadow had followed her ever since. Every tutor, every commander, and even her own mother had sternly reminded her of her name and what they expected of her. That old barb was still sharp after all these years and no less so for having come from Tullius.

As little time as she had had to spend around him, she liked the general. He was sharp-minded, a good strategist, and he seemed to be an even better commander. His people were loyal – not simply to the Empire, but to Tullius himself. They didn't want to disappoint him and, really, neither did Gallica. She could remember him standing in her chamber in the monastery on the night before the peace summit, tired, his dark hawkish eyes fixing on her – understanding that she was already fighting a battle harder than any he could imagine and yet knowing that he must still recruit her into his own.  Where as Ulfric pulled at her heartstrings, Tullius appealed to her thinking mind and to her sense of decency and honor.  As much as she had fallen for Ulfric, it was Tullius' words that stayed with her, pricking at her and reminding her that there was a high cost for her happiness.  One she was not yet certain she could afford to pay.

 _The Empire needs you._ I _need you. Remember that._

The reminder of her grandfather had stung, but it could not have been more effective. General Gallicus had been a hero, a brilliant tactician, and a good man. When he could have quit the field and retreated, he had stayed behind with his men and died holding a bridge against the Thalmor to buy the Emperor the time he needed to secure the city. He had believed in the Empire, truly and to the very end. And here she was, his granddaughter and now his only living descendant, about to bring down everything he had fought for. The thought haunted Gallica, no matter how she turned it over in her mind.

She reached the shore before nightfall and camped there under the twisting auroras, feeling that she was at the very end of the world. In the morning, she fitted steel spurs onto her boots for traversing the ice and took her bearings as well as she could by the position of the palid sun. There was no man or beast alive that could frighten Gallica after her battle with Alduin, but nature was an unfeeling foe and could kill her in a thousand ways without a thought. The ice was thick, however, and the weather was calm and Gallica pressed forward, moving carefully across the floes.

By noon, after hours of excruciatingly slow and exhausting travel, she spotted the crest of the island to the northwest. Feeling relief mixed with trepidation, she changed her course slightly, skirting a large patch of open water towards her destination, and then suddenly she heard a spine-chilling crack.

Freezing in place, Gallica looked around for the source of the sound only for her heart to jump into her throat as she noticed a jagged fissure beginning to creep through the center of the ice floe she was standing on.  _Careful_ , she thought, trying to decide what to do. If she moved, she might open the fissure wider, and the section of ice that was being cleaved off from the main sheet could easily overturn with her on it. At the same time, she needed to get off of the floe to safer ground.

Carefully, she edged closer to the fissure, but stopped when she heard another, louder crack. Water was starting to seep up through the crevice and she eyed the cold patch of sea beside her. She could swim, but not easily in a hundred pounds of armor and gear, and she wouldn't survive more than a few minutes in the freezing water.

 _Try not to die out there on the ice_ , Galmar sneered in her mind, and she felt her temper flare. She would get herself out of this. Ulfric was waiting on her and she would drag herself through Oblivion and back, if it meant spiting Galmar Stone-Fist. Inhaling deeply, she readied her body and concentrated on a spot many yards ahead of her, closer towards the island. The Shout expelled itself from her lungs like a blast of wind.

" **Wuld nah kest!** "

Even as the wind pulled her body through the air behind it, as if she were being sucked into place by a vacuum, Gallica heard a final loud crunch and groan as the ice sheet broke free and tipped. When the wind released her, she skidded, her spurs shaving deep channels in the ice beneath her feet. She dug them in, falling to a crouch and came to rest nearly a foot from the dark water.

Looking back, she saw that the floe she had been standing on seconds before had rolled over and was now floating free in the channel. If she had stayed still a moment longer, she would have been dumped into the sea.

"Thank the Nine," she breathed, relief overwhelming her, bowing her head and pressing her hands to her face for an instant. The danger wasn't over yet, however. Picking herself up, she surveyed her new location and plotted a new course for the island, taking her time and going out of her way to keep to the center of the flows where the ice would be the thickest. There was no need to tempt fate twice in one day.

~~0~~

Killing the wraith once she had made her way to the solid ground of Serpentstone Island was almost an afterthought, but then this mission wasn't a test of her prowess as a warrior. The stupid creatures would attack anything that moved and they fought without art or intelligence. Luring one out from the stones and smashing it was hardly much of a chore compared to other battles she'd fought. With the teeth safely secured, Gallica took a moment to study the great standing stones, appreciating a sight that she guessed few living people had seen, and then steeled herself for the trek back across to the mainland.

The weather was beginning to turn again and she guessed it would be dark long before she reached the shore. With the year grinding down into the freezing entropy of winter, daylight was short and precious, especially this far north. Still, it was more dangerous to camp out here on the ice than it was to keep going, so she forged on despite being dog-tired and colder than she had ever been in her life. All those forced marches as a young recruit  _had_  built character, she told herself, making the attempt at humor.

By the time she reached land again, her boots soaked and hoar-frost crusting her furs and eyebrows, Gallica vowed that she would never set foot off dry land again if she could help it. There was little enough wood to be had, and what there was was too snow-dampened to light, so she dug herself a windbreak against a rock and hunkered down for an uncomfortable night.

In some bizarre way, perhaps this was an analogy for what being a Nord was really all about, Gallica thought as she shivered in the darkness. She couldn't imagine a Legion officer asking her to go through all this trouble and risk her life for something so fundamentally petty. But the traditional Nords of Skyrim had peculiar ideas about what was important compared to the orderly rationale of the Imperials, as she had so often seen demonstrated lately. Maybe sheer stubbornness in the face of nature and the willingness to do foolish things simply on principle were the foundation stones of Nord culture. That would certainly explain Ulfric and Galmar, as well as a number of other people she had met since she had come here.

If so, Gallica thought, then she supposed that this little escapade had proved she was just as hard-headed and Nord-blooded as they were – especially since she had done all this solely to prove Galmar wrong. Maybe that was what he had been getting at when he had decided to send her to this Divines-forsaken place to begin with: to try and awaken some deep-rooted ancestral sense of bloody-minded stubbornness in her.

When dawn came, she shook off the inch of snow that had piled up on her overnight and set off for the city, trudging in a near trance-like, weary daze. Damn the war, Gallica thought to herself, all she cared about now was that there was a warm bed and some decent food waiting for her somewhere.

It was dusky by the time she saw the peaked roof of the Palace of the Kings in the distance, finally, she quickened her pace, eager for home. No sooner had she entered the gates, however, skirting the torch-lit main plaza towards the Palace, when she spotted a Dunmer man arguing in low tones – almost pleading - with a trio of city guards.

The man glanced in her direction and then stared. He broke from the guards and hurried across the square towards her and Gallica stopped waiting. She did not know many of the dark elves of Windhelm other than Suvaris, but after wiping the paving stones with Rolff Stone-Fist, she had become something of an instant local hero among the denizens of the Grey Quarter.

"Dragonborn," the mer said, approaching her. Gallica knew something was wrong the instant she saw his expression. Mer were less expressive than their human counterparts – the dark elves often considered especially stone-faced by many Nords - but it was obvious to Gallica that this one was distressed. "You know my sister Suvaris."

Immediately, Gallica roused herself, her throat catching. Dread swept over her, her spine tingling.

"What's wrong? What's happened?"

"I've told the guards, but they said they can't prove anything and there's nothing they can do," the Dunmer replied, aggrieved. "Suvaris was on her way home when Rolff Stonefist and his friends -"

"Show me," Gallica demanded, cutting him off, and hurried after the grateful dark elf down into the Grey Quarter, her anger building, unable to escape the feeling that something terrible was coming to a head tonight.

Something that, once unleashed, could not be taken back.


	6. Sundered

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which things are broken - perhaps beyond repair, perhaps not.

The Atheron residence was well-lit when they arrived, despite the lateness of the hour and the darkness of the sunken, shabby Grey Quarter streets. The fire in the grate gave off an anemic warmth, though the air remained damp.  Gallica could hear a low murmur from elsewhere in the house as she entered behind her Dunmer escort and removed her helm, and then footsteps as another Dunmer - Suvaris' other brother Aval, if she had to guess - emerged from the side room. He was older than Suvaris and Faryl, as evidenced by his darker complexion and the lines around his angry red eyes.  The lines creased and he scowled as his gaze landed on her.

"What is she doing here? Faryl?"

It was an odd reaction, given that Gallica was known to be one of the few Nords of influence in Windhelm who was friendly to the Dark Elves.  But Aval could not have been more furious.  Gallica’s heart pounded faster, trying to imagine all the possibilities – what could have happened to Suvaris that would have the brothers’ so upset?

"Suvaris is my friend," Gallica soothed, as Faryl stepped up beside her, appeasing.

"She's the Dragonborn, brother. She can help."

"The same Dragonborn that's been toadying around with Ulfric and his cronies. I'm surprised you'd allow yourself to be seen down here with us  _greyskins_ ," the merchant shot back venomously.  He seemed about to continue his tirade, but turned as a soft voice spoke from the back room.

"Aval? Who is it?"

The Dark Elf lowered his voice curtly, though he did not cease glaring at Gallica.

"No one, sister. She's just leaving."

A slim form appeared in the doorway, brushing back dark hair from a familiar face, and Gallica's hand went to her mouth in shock before she could stop herself. Suvaris' face was badly bruised, dark purple against her normally bluish-grey skin. One of her eyes was swollen shut, and Gallica could see the silvery seam of a scar on her cheek, as if a gash had recently been healed. Her hair was ragged on that side, as if some of it had been torn away or cut.

"Gallica?”  The elf woman’s voice was thin and weary, and she turned away slightly as if to hide the bruised side of her face. Gallica moved over to her and laid a hand on her friend's shoulder. Suvaris winced slightly, and Gallica withdrew the touch.  Anger flooded her like river-water escaping its banks in a storm.

"Are you alright? Who did this?"

"Aval gave me some potions for the worst of it. I'm alright, but -- I was lucky he came home when he did.”  Suvaris swollen face hardened.  Her tone was cold when she continued. “Rolff and some of his friends paid me a 'visit', like they said they would."

"But  _why?_ " Gallica exclaimed, outraged. “They can’t really believe that you’re a spy.  That’s ridiculous.  Intimidation is one thing, but actually attacking people . . .”

"Do they need a reason?" Aval shot back, bitterly. "They walk up and down our roads almost every night shouting threats and obscenities at us. And what do the guards do about it? Nothing. By the Eight.  They could have killed her."

Gallica was at a loss, trying to calm the rage that was beginning to build up within her. 

 _I told him_ , she thought, remembering her conversation with Galmar.  _I told him what would happen, and now it has._

"The guards have to do something,  _this --_ this is unacceptable. _"_

"I went to the guards first," Faryl explained, shaking his head. The Dark Elf ran a hand over his dark top-knot, his voice grieved.  "They told me that since no one else saw it, we have no proof that it was Rolff.  They said the only thing they can do is keep an extra watch on the road.  And we all know how well that has worked up til now."

"If it was one of their own women, they'd be knocking down his door even now," his brother growled, pacing.

"It was Rolff," Suvaris repeated, certainly. The look on her face as she looked up at Gallica was heartbreaking. "He said that snitching to the Dragonborn proved that I was a spy.  And if we didn’t leave, it would be worse next time."

Gallica stared at her friend for a long moment, shaking her head as her fingers clenched into a fist. There were problems in Windhelm.  There were prejudices.  There were mistakes.  But this was beyond tolerance.  That the guards could stand by, seeing what had been done to Suvaris, and pretend that they did not know who had been tormenting the citizens of the Grey Quarter was ludicrous and insulting.  And it was time something was done about it.

Perhaps it was because she was over-stressed from her journey tonight - perhaps it was just the buildup of so many days of tension in general - but this was the last straw. Gallica had thought Galmar would be smart enough to see that his brother’s behavior was unproductive and dangerous.  She had thought he would at least make the attempt to keep Rolff under his thumb – for appearances sake, if for no other reason - but apparently he couldn't even manage that. Or, more likely, he just didn't care. 

It was time that someone in Windhelm cared.

If the law was not going to be upheld by the Palace, the guards had no reason to enforce it in the streets.  And if the guards would not protect the citizens – all of the citizens – then Gallica would. Good timing or not, Ulfric was going to hear about this. Tonight.

" _This place reeks of greyskin filth!"_  a distant male voice shouted further up the lane outside.

Like overstretched strings on a lute, something inside Gallica snapped.

"Stay inside," she told the Atherons and turned on her heel towards the door.

"What are you going to do?" Faryl called after her, a note of concern rising in his voice.

"What I should have done the first time," Gallica replied, almost a mutter, and closed the door behind her.

Out on the street, the night was cold.  The clouds had cleared and the stars glimmered down through the narrow strip of sky between the ramshackle roofs like needles of ice. Gallica jammed her helmet onto her head and listened, waiting, her blood thrumming through her temples like a war drum.

" _You like living in this filthy slum, dark elves? Maybe you should go back to Morrowind, where you belong!_ " the shout came again, echoing perfectly through the canyon of the Grey Quarter.

She turned in the direction of the voice and strode along the cobblestones, her breath steaming in the cold through the fearsome visage of her dragon helm as if she were a true _dov._ To the Dunmer men standing in front of the cornerclub, she might as well have been.  They chose that moment to duck back inside to finish their drinks out of sight.

As she rounded the curve of the road, Gallica saw Rolff and three other men meandering through the narrow streets. They were clearly drunk, unsteady on their feet, their laughs, crude comments, and insults echoed off of the stones. The sight of their stupid, brutish faces brought a grimace of rage to her own.  She quickened her pace, heading directly for Rolff - as always, in the lead.

"Dragonborn," the big stupid Nord called to her as he spotted her, grinning like an idiot and opening his arms in the face of approaching doom. "Fancy seein' you here. Care to join us?"

Before he or his friends knew what had happened, Gallica was upon them. With every bit of force she could muster, she slammed her gauntleted fist into Rolff Stone-Fist's face. There was a sickening crunch and he crumpled with a wet, agonized groan.

"Hey!" one of the other men cried out, but the unexpected violence of the blow had shocked them into inaction.  They seemed rooted to the spot, staring with open mouths as Gallica reached down and grabbed their compatriot by his tunic and pulled him back up right.

"You think you're funny?" she snarled as she slammed Rolff against the nearby wall. The drunk gibbered in surprised anger as blood ran down his scruffy face, staining his clothes.  Gallica back-handed him again. "Did you laugh while you were beating Suvaris Atheron earlier? Is this not as amusing to you as tormenting an unarmed woman?”

For an instant, Rolff seemed to mount enough courage to fight back, reaching for his belt knife.  Gallica had a decade of Legion training on the younger Stormcloak, though, and within an instant the knife was clattering onto the stone and Rolff was roaring with pain, cradling his arm from where Gallica had disarmed him.  She gripped the drunk by the neck, pressing him back against the stones as she leaned her face towards him, aware of her bared teeth, feeling as if she could bore holes in the man’s head with her eyes as they met his frightened grey ones.

“Go on, you wretched sack of filth," she spat at him.  " _Laugh_."

The two other drunks finally seemed to pull themselves together enough to try and help their friend, but Gallica whirled on them and let a Shout that had been building in her lungs since she had stepped onto the street escape her throat.

" **Fus ro!** "

The men were flung back up the road several yards, tumbling into each other, and Gallica turned her attention back on Rolff.  His eyes had gone wide with mortal terror and he was emitting a sustained, sniveling noise of terror as he pried uselessly at the fingers clenched around his throat.

"I've fought beside Dark Elves,” Gallica seethed at him, menacingly.  She jerked his body angrily for emphasis. " _Ev_ _ _ery single one of them__  was a better and braver man or woman than you could ever hope to be. Call them 'greyskin filth' again, Rolff.  Let me see that fabled Nord courage that allows you to beat innocent civilians."

"What's going on here?" a voice demanded from nearby and she glanced up to see a contingent of guards standing further up the road near where the other thugs were trying to pick themselves up off of the stairs. There were five of them, their blue cloaks flapping in the draft of the narrow street.  Their weapons were drawn.

"Just dealing with a disturbance," Gallica replied, calmly, as if she were not poised and ready to throttle the bloody, sniveling drunk in her grip.

The lead guard stepped towards her a few paces and craned his neck to see who she had pinned to the wall, then turned to exchange a glance with his fellows.

"We're going to have to ask you to come with us, Dragonborn,” the man said finally.  His tone was polite, almost apologetic, though there was a uneasy edge to it.  The guards did not sheath their swords.

"And where would we be going?"

Gallica’s fingers were still clenched around Rolff's throat.  Her grip tightened as he attempted to wriggle away while her gaze was locked on the guard.

"We'll escort you back to the Palace,” the guard explained after a moment of internal deliberation.

Gallica smiled grimly.

She exchanged her grasp on Rolff’s neck down to the front of his tunic and jerked the miscreant roughly upright, shoving him along in front of her towards the guard.

"I think that’s a fine idea. Let's all go together. I'm sure Jarl Ulfric will have something to say about all of this."

The guards hesitated, but Gallica was already pushing through them and navigating her whimpering charge before her and she drove him along towards the Palace of Kings.  The guards fell cautiously in line behind her. Rolff’s companions had already taken the opportunity to flee. 

As she walked, Gallica was struck by the dreadful, sickening intuition that everything was going to change tonight. The storm that had been building over the last month was breaking. Whether it was for better or worse, she could not say.

~~0~~

The doors to the Palace echoed like dull  thunder as they shut behind her, mingling with the sounds of the guards' armor and Rolff's pained snuffling. The light was dim, the torches smoldering in their brackets. It was late, she remembered suddenly.

Galmar, burning the midnight oil apparently, stepped out of the war room.  His hand reached for his axe reflexively and then he recognized her, pausing in surprise.

"Dragonb--" he began, and then spotted his brother, whose face was beginning to flower with large dark bruises. The Stormcloak general’s face twisted and reddened with anger. "Rolff?"

"It turns out your brother is even denser than he looks, Galmar," Gallica said, almost flippantly. She was too angry to care whether she angered the housecarl or not. If Galmar attacked her in a fit of rage, she would welcome it. 

 _Give me an excuse_ , she thought, feeling her fingers rub hard on the hilt of her own sword.  _I'll take anything right now_.

"What--" the general started and stopped, clearly trying to restrain himself.  Gallica was in no mood to wait.

"Send for Ulfric. I don't want to tell this story twice," she snapped.

Several servants had clustered timidly at the door that lead to the kitchens on the far side of the hall and she turned her gaze sharply to them. One scurried off towards the upper rooms to fetch her master.

The uncomfortable moments ticked by.  Rolff whimpered unintelligibly, trying to wipe the blood from his face.  Galmar looked as if he might explode at any moment. The guards stood around awkwardly, clearly wishing they could just blend into the stonework of the walls.  Gallica waited, glaring, and tried to calm the seething cauldron of anger inside of her.

Finally, Ulfric strode in looking hastily dressed.  His expression as he passed through the doorway of the war room and into the hall was a mixture of confusion and annoyance. He stopped a few feet away and glanced from her to Rolff to Galmar, and then cleared his throat, conjuring up the impassible expression of a Jarl sitting in judgement once again.

"Dragonborn, I assume that you can explain this."

"This man badly abused a citizen of your city tonight in her own home. Your guards failed to respond despite it being reported to them and, being in the neighborhood, I took it upon myself to do their job for them."

Ulfric frowned deeply, turning his gaze to Rolff. 

"Is this true?"

"She was just a bloody elf. Thought she was an Imperial spy," Rolff snuffled, wetly.

Gallica made towards him as if to backhand him again.  The cur cringed away as his brother simultaneously started forward to defend him.  A word from Ulfric held both Gallica and Galmar back, but she turned her glare on the Jarl just in time to see his expression relax a little in understanding. 

 _Just a_ _n elf, then_ , she imagined him thinking.  _Not a proper citizen._ Her rage thumped harder against her chest.

"Ysmir's beard," Galmar swore in irritation, rolling his eyes towards the ceiling as if she were wasting their time. “All this over some Grey Quarter slattern?”

Before Gallica could express her outrage at the housecarl, Ulfric held up his hands and stepped between the two of them.

"Enough.  I think this can wait until morning," Ulfric decided, glancing warily at Gallica before turning to Galmar. "Have the guards ensure that your brother makes it home. And that he stays there."

"You can't be serious!" Gallica errupted, incredulously.  She stabbed a finger at the younger Stone-Fist. "This _t_ _hug_  belongs in a prison cell. If he was terrorizing Nord women rather than elves, that's where he would have been a long time ago."

"Watch what accusations you throw around, woman. All I see here is my brother's blood on your hands," growled Galmar, his eyes glinting fury.

"Oh, don't stand there and pretend you didn't know about his late night strolls through the Grey Quarter," she snarled back, bristling. "I warned you this would happen.  I told you to keep him under control-"

"And I told you to keep your damned hands off of my kin!"

"Enough!" Ulfric roared. He glared between them, angry himself now.  Scowling and drawing a deep breath, he gestured curtly to Galmar. "You.  Take him away. I don't care where.”

He rounded next on Gallica as she opened her mouth to protest.

“And you. stay here. I have some things to say to you."

"I demand justice," Gallica insisted, pressing past her reservations and returning his glare in equal measure.

The very air seemed to sizzle around them.  Ulfric’s blue eyes went cold.  No one moved until she shook her head, pointing at Rolff. 

"You ask me to help free Skyrim, Ulfric. Is  _this_  the Skyrim you want? Is _this_ what you want me to fight for?"

"You will  _not_  disrespect the Jarl in my presence," Galmar thundered, drawing his axe.

Gallica faced him, teeth bared as her hand gripped the hilt of her sword, prepared to fight.  Before she could draw, Ulfric stepped more firmly between her and Galmar, facing her.  His eyes smoldered with wrath, angrier than she had seen him since that day at Helgen.  The other Ulfric - Ulfric the lover - was entirely replaced by Ulfric the Jarl.

"I have allowed you the right to speak freely with me, Dragonborn," he began, his voice low and authoritative and chilling. "But you are  _dangerously_  close to overstepping my tolerance."

Gallica could tell he was struggling to hold his temper.  She had pushed him right up to the edge this time, but she could not regret it.  She stared back at him, her nerves clamoring for the fight, her blood pounding.  Ulfric’s face was like a mask of iron.  When he spoke, it was not to reason.  It was a command.

"Stand down – _now -_ and I will dismiss your behavior here to fatigue from your journey. We will discuss this in the morning."

Gallica stared at him, shaking her head, feeling as if she was about to be sick.  Her head was filled with a thousand conflicting thoughts, all shrieking at her.  She finally understood the thing that she had refused to let herself see or think about since she had come here.  She knew that nothing would happen to Rolff - or, if it did, it would be merely a gesture to appease her.  Galmar would see to it that it was a minor slap on the wrist at best. Too many of Ulfric's supporters and soldiers held similar beliefs for him to take a public stand in favor of the elves. And, Gallica realized now, he didn't really care.  The Dark Elves were nothing to him in comparison to the success of the war.

Ulfric was sincere in his love for Skyrim.  Gallica knew this.  However, that love extended only to a Skyrim that _he_ ruled and in which there was room only for those who shared his vision and no one else.  And she could not.  Not if that vision ignored what had happened to Suvaris.  Not if that vision protected violent bigots like Rolff Stone-Fist.  In the end, whatever Ulfric might feel for her when they were alone, Gallica could see now that ultimately she was just another jewel in the crown that Ulfric was planning for himself - a legendary queen for a legendary king.  Courting her was politically expedient in the same way that ignoring the suffering of the elves in his city was politically expedient.  He might truly love her - but he would always love himself and his legend more.  She had been foolish to ever hope otherwise.  

This realization, too long in coming, hurt down to the very core of Gallica’s being like no other wound ever had.  Without a word, she turned her back on Ulfric and strode toward the doors.     

"Dragonborn!" the Jarl shouted after her, furious, but this only quickened her pace.

Somewhere behind her, Gallica heard Galmar start after her and Ulfric stop him tersely, his voice only an echo as she reached the doors.

"Let her go. She'll come back when she's calmed down."

But Gallica would not go back. As she broke into a run on the moon-washed streets, she did not care where her feet were taking either, only that it was somewhere far away from Windhelm and Ulfric Stormcloak and the howling, empty tearing feeling that was building inside of her.

 


	7. Taking Sides

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the right road is the one fraught with the most dangers

The night was dark and cold outside the walls of Windhelm. A sharp wind blew up through the river valley, shivering and groaning through the rocks and pines. As Gallica trudged past the stable to the muddy highway, the impossibility of her situation dawned upon her.

It was nearing the middle of the night. The wilderness around the city could be dangerous even in full daylight and she was achingly tired. The battle-rush of her anger had been the only thing sustaining her and it was now subsiding, bringing the harsh reality of where she was back to hand. She stopped, exhaling a long breath out into the frigid air, watching it disperse like smoke before she turned and looked back at the city.

Windhelm shone in the darkness across the river like a beacon with the glint and glare of its torchlight and braziers on the ancient stone walls. The icy current of the river washed steadily under the bridge, unaffected by the human drama of the evening. In the distance, she could see the towers of the Palace of Kings, and Gallica felt her heart sink. She should go back. If not to Ulfric, then to the Candlehearth for the night. She was cold, hungry, and exhausted.  Her head would be clearer after she had slept. It was the only sensible thing to do – but Gallica was not feeling sensible at the moment.

She had never been angrier and more disgusted with another person in her life than she was now with Ulfric - but she still loved him. She had never felt as dirty as she did around the likes of Galmar Stonefist and his idiot brother – and yet she felt pulled back even as her revulsion pushed her away. If she stayed, it would only get worse.  Gallica knew this. This was only the beginning.  She had embarrassed Ulfric and he would have to hold his position on the Grey Quarter now in order to save face. The alternative, though – the thought of leaving the Ulfric that was revealed to her only in private moments – broke her heart.

 _He's right about one thing_ , Gallica thought, gazing back across the causeway and feeling her chest constrict with regret. _The time for talking is over._

She could no longer fool herself into believed that there was a diplomatic solution to this war – that she could convince Ulfric and Tullius to reach a peaceful conclusion. Even if the General was willing, Ulfric was too proud and too far under the influence of his own rhetoric to ever consider it. She had never wanted to become involved in all of this, but now she had little choice. In her mind's eye, she could look forward to the end of things and see a broken Empire and a mortally weakened Skyrim alike under the boot of Thalmor oppression. Someone had to put an end to the war and soon, and no one else was as well-placed as she was.

But what could she do? She could not fight for Ulfric while he railed about justice and freedom in one moment and allowed heinous injustice to run rampant in his own city in the next. She did not want to fight against him either – the man whose heart was now twined up with her own. And yet, Tullius' words stuck with her, goading her.

The Empire needed her.   She had shed blood - her own and that of others - for it.  How could she not come to its aid now, when she was needed most?

Gallica knew that she could not decide in Windhelm. She needed time and space to think without Ulfric's strange magnetism influencing her thoughts. She could not go home to Whiterun either. Ulfric would already have agents in the city and, if she was seen there, he would have to assume that she had betrayed his plans to Balgruuf. It would provoke a, likely bloody, incident. Retreating to High Hrothgar would buy her some peace and quiet, but she felt she had already imposed upon the monks enough. Detached as they were from the world, this was a problem they could not help her with anyway. The civil war and matters of the heart were beneath them, both literally and figuratively.

That left only one place where Gallica knew that she could tread safely and largely outside of both Stormcloak and Imperial influence. With a deep breath, she turned to the stable, finding her horse and saddling it with her own hands. Kynesgrove was just a few miles down the valley road. She would sleep at the inn there until daylight and then be on her way. Ulfric would be livid when – _if -_ she returned, but he would either understand or he wouldn't and either way might offer the nudge she needed to make up her mind.

~~0~~

Morthal was much as Gallica had left it: a festering huddle of shacks and docks situated on the southern rim of the Hjaalmarsh. The guards' torches bobbed like wisps through the mist that rose up from the swamps in the evening chill, but the lights from Highmoon Hall were a welcome sight as she descended from the ridge into the town.

The people here knew her - she had eliminated a den of vampires for them earlier in her travels - but the few citizens that were still out this evening on the dirt road through town hurried past with barely a glance. Those who came to Morthal came there largely to get away from other people, making it a community of hermits more than anything else. In a way, it was somewhat of a relief to simply be ignored.

When her horse was tended to and her gear stowed at the inn, Gallica made her way back to the Jarl's hall to see to the formalities. Idgrod Ravencrone did not keep as grand an estate as the Jarls of Whiterun and Windhelm, but Gallica had always found the dim, smoky hall to be a more fitting environment for its resident. The embers of the fire cast eerie shadows in the rafters as the few servants and family members of the household moved around the hearth. From elsewhere, Gallica could smell dinner being prepared and her stomach knotted, reminding her that she had not eaten more than a handful of dried rations all day.

"A familiar face comes into my hall," croaked the woman on the High Seat at the back of the room. The Jarl's dark eyes glimmered like a crow's, her expression eerie and knowing. Even without the enormous hulk of her housecarl standing in the shadows behind her, even with the frailties of age setting in, Idgrod commanded attention and respect. "You are welcome here, Gallica Dragonborn."

"Thank you, Jarl Idgrod," Gallica replied, respectfully clasping her fist to her chest. The old mystic always made her feel anxious and therefore more formal and polite. Her father's influence, as he had imprinted upon her the same deep suspicion of magic that his Skyrim-born ancestors had possessed.

"We have heard word of your deeds. News comes slowly to Morthal, but it comes. And now you have come here yourself," the crone continued, but smiling. "To what do we owe the honor?"

"I had hoped to rest here for a few days," Gallica explained, adding more than a little self-consciously, "and perhaps seek your counsel on a matter."

"Ah, yes." Idgrod's wrinkles deepened as her smile widened slightly. "Men are more dangerous than any dragon. And the gods have strewn both in your path. I see."

Before Gallica could reply, the Jarl made a gesture with her bony hand.

"We will speak of this tomorrow. Dine with us tonight. My hospitality is yours. We will see what the gods are willing to tell you."

Recognizing when she had been dismissed, Gallica nodded her thanks and backed away. The servants were setting up for the evening meal and she spent a few moments while they were waiting catching up with the steward and learning the latest news. Finally, as the household assembled, she took up a spot midway along the hall on one of the benches that had been set in place along the walls. Over the last few months, she had gotten a feel for Nord etiquette and was relieved that no one seemed to expect her to take a place of high precedence as the Dragonborn. Idgrod was no fool.  She knew that those who came to her lands came there largely to disappear.

As she settled in and accepted a drinking horn from the serving girl, the legate that had been stationed in Morthal when she had last passed through - Taurinus, if she remembered correctly - emerged from the drawing room. He stopped dead in his tracks as his eyes fixed on Gallica and the contemptuous glare he gave her was colder than the wind on the frozen sea. Gallica watched uneasily as he glance at the already filled benches on the other side of the hall before tightening his expression and moving past her to take up the empty space on the bench to her right. The legate said nothing and kept his eyes stiffly forward, and Gallica awkwardly returned the favor, feeling chastened.

Idgrod had no bard and so the hall filled with the gentle susurrus of conversation rather than music as the food was served. To Gallica's left, Idgrod the Younger was fussing over her younger brother, who appeared paler than the last time Gallica had seen him. The boy stared at her with raven-like eyes eerily similar to his mother's, even more unnerving in a child's face. And so, with uneasy company on one side and frigid company on the other, Gallica turn her gaze to the hearth instead and tried to concentrate on relaxing in the warmth of the hall after a long, cold journey.

"Morthal is quite a distance from Windhelm," Taurinus said, at last, startling her from her meditations. Although, he didn't look at her, the challenge in the Imperial's voice and the strained in his jaw and neck said more than he probably wished them to.

If this legate, posted out here in the swamps in the last place of notice to the Stormcloaks, knew where she had been these last few weeks, then Tullius certainly did. Gallica's heart sank a little, but she summoned all of her reserves of courtesy.  The Legion officer had a right to be concerned.  Morthal was his charge to protect and she was a possible threat now.  No good would come of quarreling with him.

"I have business with Jarl Idgrod," she replied, careful to keep her tone even and friendly.

The legate grunted, skeptically.  He sipped his wine as if there was a sour taste to it.

"Then I would keep your business short and move on quickly. Morthal has problems enough without Stormcloak rabble-rousing."

"I'm not here to rabble-rouse," Gallica replied, adding, "and I am not a Stormcloak."

Taurinus turned and looked at her then, his lip curled with disdain and his dark Cyrodiilic eyes flashing irritation.

"You may not wear the armor - and that's the only reason you aren't under arrest, Jarl's guest or not - but you aren't fooling anyone. Spare us the lie, at least."

And there it was. Gallica lowered her plate to the low table and turned to look him in the eye. This gesture usually caused most people to look away from the Dragonborn, but Taurinus was made of sterner stuff. He glared back at her, almost challengingly.

"Legate, I don't know what you've heard," she began, slipping into the less formal tone of a soldier talking to another solider, "but I'm not here at Ulfric Stormcloak's behest. You have my word on that."

"The word of a rebel?" Taurinus snorted, but she could see that he believed her. The man eyed her warily. "Why _are_ you here, then?"

"As I said, I've come to seek Jarl Idgrod's counsel on a personal matter."

He arched an eyebrow, a comment to himself, and upended his drinking horn, holding it out for the servant to refill.

"If its counsel you're after, here's some from me: get yourself away from Ulfric Stormcloak and Windhelm. There are enough traitorous heads bound for the chopping block already without adding more."

The image of Ulfric, gagged, standing before the headsman's block on that day in Helgen flashed through her mind and Gallica winced. The legate must have noticed, because he turned a pointed glare on her.

"Listen. You did a good thing for Morthal when you were last here. If half of the things these Nords say about you is true, then you're a hero. Fine. But you're on the wrong side now. The Stormcloaks swagger and boast, but after a hard winter of fighting most of them will beat a trail back to their farms with their tails between their legs.  And a lot of people are going to die in the mean time." He shook his head, bitterly. "Being the Dragonborn or whatever it is they call you won't save your neck when the reckoning comes around. You think about that. I think we're done here."

With that, he lapsed into a cold silence, tearing fiercely into a chunk of bread as a symbol that the conversation was over. Rebuffed, Gallica finished her food, waited for a tactful moment to step out, and then headed back for the inn.

She couldn't blame Taurinus, but his reaction to her had cut her more deeply than she had thought possible. She had retired from the Legion, but she had never really stopped thinking like a soldier. The army had been her extended family for the better part of her life. You could fight with your family, you could dislike some of them them, but you always looked out for each other.  The bonds of steel were as solid as the bonds of blood. Being shunned by someone that she would otherwise have regarded as a comrade was deeply unsettling.

"You're back," Lurbuk greeted her cheerfully when she arrived at the inn. She'd been hoping to avoid him, but he rarely left the common room, much to the proprietress' chagrin. The orcish bard's toothy grin was as hopeful as it was hideous. "I could sing for you, Dragonborn. Ha! Maybe "The Dragonborn Comes"? Fitting, right?"

The single patron who had taken up residence in the corner groaned and stood, staggering out of the inn as the innkeeper pursed her lips and shook her head in consternation.

Gallica felt sorry for the orc, but she was in no mood to hear anything about the Dragonborn tonight even to assuage his feelings. And so she fished a few coins out of her pouch and handed them to the would-be bard.

"Not tonight," she said, as kindly as she could manage. "And if you could refrain from singing it while I'm here, I'll give you more before I leave. I've heard all I can stand of the Dragonborn lately."

With that, she went into her room and shut the door behind her. She would hear what Idgrod had to say tomorrow and she would make a decision. East or west, or out of Skyrim altogether. The only relief she was going to get was to choose one.

 

 

 

~~0~~

Idgrod was waiting when Gallica arrived in the hall the following morning. Not one to stand on ceremony, she was up and stiffly moving towards the war room before the formalities could be observed.

"Off with you," she commanded Taurinus, who was studying a map to one side. He looked up, surprised, his expression darkening as his eyes lit on Gallica. The Jarl, however, made a shooing gesture with her wrinkled hands. "Go, go, go. Go take a walk. Too much brooding indoors and not enough fresh is air is what makes you Imperials all so stuffy. Go on."

Affronted, but realizing that he was a guest in the hall, the legate straightened and walked out while trying to retain as much dignity as he could after being hurried away like a puppy. Once he was gone, the Jarl of Morthal smiled at Gallica and took a seat in one of the chairs, indicating the other. Feeling embarrassed on the soldier's behalf, Gallica self-consciously complied.

"The man skulks around in here too much. A little sunlight, such as it is here, will do him good. Now, you wanted my advice on your current situation with Ulfric Stormcloak, hmm?"

Gallica blinked, her mouth dropping open slightly as she tried to find a reply to having her request stolen right out from under her. Idgrod grinned at her discomfort.

"You needn't look surprised, girl. Every Jarl in Skyrim knows who has been seen in the Palace of the Kings these last few weeks. And it isn't as if the man has made a secret out of his plans. It doesn't take a seer to count two and two together."

"I see," Gallica managed to say, swallowing, as she felt the back of her neck begin to prickle. Idgrod was a crafty old woman behind her stately title, but who knew how much of her gifts were intellectual and how much originated elsewhere?

"And, like every young woman, you are conflicted. Should you accept this man along with all of his foibles and faults or try your luck with the other one and his particular set of troubles?"

"The other one?"

"Of course.  If you don't already know, then I think you will soon enough," the Jarl explained, dismissively, still smiling her eerie smile. She shook her head, "Your problem, Dragonborn, is that you ask the wrong questions."

"What do you mean?" Gallica asked, frowning, feeling like she had completely lost track of the conversation somewhere between the time she had entered the room and now.

"You worry about which side will – _should -_ win. That's a simple question and the answer should be apparent to you by now. The side that _you_  choose will win. That's your wyrd here: to bring some order to the chaos."

"But I don't want to choose a side," Gallica protested, vexed, and was stopped by the old woman's smile.

Idgrod shrugged her thin shoulders.

"Then both will lose. Even your refusal to take a side is a choice in someone's favor. Better that you choose from among what you know than what you don't know, eh?"

"Why me?" Gallica demanded, restlessly, upset now as she felt her pulse begin to throb in her temples. "Why has all of this been laid at my feet?"

"You are the Dragonborn. That is all.  You might as well wonder why your eyes are blue and not green or why the sun rises in the east and not the west. For reasons known only to the Divines, Akatosh has set you – _you_ particularly - down in this time and place and bound your will to the flow of Time.  You cannot change that any more than you can change your eyes or the sun. It is simply how things are."

The answer was unsatisfactory.  But it was, at least, an answer.  Gallica sighed and closed her eyes, trying to pick through this information.

"You say that I'm asking the wrong questions," Gallica repeated, finally, "What should I be asking, then?"

The crone's smile creased a little deeper, but her eyes were as sharp as awls as they focused on Gallica's.

"Ask yourself, Gallica Dragonborn - what world do _you_ want to live in? Ulfric's paradise of free Nords? The order and continuity of an aging Empire? Would you have it all swept away in favor of something new? Would you follow the example of Talos and take power into your own hands?"

"I've never wanted power. All I wanted when I came here was to bury my brother and then to just disappear into a quiet life - to be no one's pawn anymore," Gallica replied wearily, her heart sinking.

"Ah." Idgrod's expressed turn softer, almost sad. "But we are all pawns to something or someone. You, at least, can choose the hand that plays you. That is more than most of us are afforded."

So, Gallica thought, she was still stuck. The thought of fighting for and with people like Galmar Stone-fist, even in a cause that she could sympathize with, was abhorrent. The idea that Windhelm was a model for what the rest of Skyrim might become if Ulfric won was disturbing in the extreme. But if Ulfric lost, he would die and that was something Gallica could not bear to imagine.

"And if my mind says one thing and my heart another?" she breathed, at last.

The old mystic studied her for a long moment before replying.

"I see dark days ahead for Skyrim, regardless of who wins or loses this war. Akatosh has bestowed a divine gift on you. And, it would seem, so has Mara. In her mercy, I do not think she would lay it upon you simply to increase your burden. This, too, is part of the path laid out before you. Love has a way of finding its way through darkness."

Gallica pondered the soothsaying, and then an idea kindled in her mind and began to grow. _Make the world you want to live in_ , she thought. _Love will find its own way_.

"Thank you," she told Idgrod, rising. "I think I know now what I have to do."

The Jarl's smile did not fade, but she nodded. Gallica bowed and turned, hurrying out of the room and back towards the inn to collect her belongings and her horse. It was still early enough that she could make her destination by nightfall and she would not take the chance of letting her resolve waiver again. The hour had struck and nothing would be the same afterwards.

~~0~~

The lanterns were being lit along the main boulevard of Solitude when Gallica stepped through the gates. Having made no secret of her presence as she approached the city in her dragon armor and riding in full view of the guards for the better part of the last mile, she had half-expected to be arrested almost immediately. That they had allowed her to stable her horse and enter the city without stopping her was potentially a good sign, but she could not relax yet. Much hinged on what she found at Castle Dour and it could still go either way. If she faltered or if she had misjudged the situation, then it could go very badly indeed. Still, she had to try.

The guards at the gates of the castle eyed her warily - by which she guessed that they knew exactly who she was - but they did not stop her. The guards posted at the entrance to the keep did halt her progress, but only long enough to ask her name. One escorted her inside without even asking who she was there to see. So, she was expected. Gallica knew that she had been right in her guess that Taurinus had sent word of her arrival and that Tullius would set a watch for her.  There was no way that he could be ignorant of where she had been until now and there were many possible reasons that he would allow her to come into his presence, both good and bad. She would know which it was to be soon enough.

The inside of the castle was dim and cramped. It had been built with defense in mind rather than comfort after all. The torches and candles, however, were still lit in the downstairs war-room even at this late hour. Gallica felt her chest constrict, her heartbeat loud in her ears as if she was about to go into battle. This was her last chance to back out and it might even be too late for that. Still, she had made her decision and she was no coward.  She would accept the consequences of her own actions, whatever they were. Steeling herself, she stepped across the threshold and into the war room.

Tullius, Rikke, and another legate were standing in the center of the chamber around a map table, discussing something earnestly amongst themselves.  All three looked up when Gallica entered. Their expressions were deadly serious. Rikke frowned, aggressively. The unknown Legate looked tense, concerned. Tullius, for his part, remained passive - no more or less stone-faced than he had always been.

A tense, awkward silence hung in the air, seeming to stretch on for an eternity before the General cleared his throat and glanced at Gallica's escorts.

"You're dismissed," he told the soldiers behind her.

The man saluted and beat a hasty and no doubt grateful retreat. Gallica waited, forcing herself to meet Tullius' gaze while she tried to discern what was to happen next. His expression remained unreadable, but she knew that he was judging her every move, trying to read her intentions just as much as she wanted to read his.

"Well, Gallica," he began finally, his tone cool and polite, "I assume that this isn't a social call."

"No, sir," she replied quietly, feeling her mouth suddenly go dry.

"Don't keep us in suspense, then." Tullius' inflection lifted slightly, attempting wry humor even through the tension. "To what do we owe the pleasure?"

"I was hoping to speak with you." Uncomfortably, Gallica glancing briefly at Rikke and added, "in private. Please."

"You have a lot of nerve-" Rikke accused, but a gesture from Tullius stopped the woman in her tracks before she could make a move towards Gallica.

The chief legate scowling, but remained still and quiet.  The general considered for a moment more, his aquiline features more hawkish than normal in the torch-light. Gallica waited, silently.

"Leave us," he told his officers, finally.

"Sir," Rikke protested, but Tullius shook his head in faint irritation, turning to his second in command.

"She's not here to put a sword through me, Legate. She's smarter than that. Post yourself outside the door. I'll handle this."

Reluctantly, with a final glare at Gallica, Rikke rapped out her assent and retreated along with the other officer, leaving only Gallica and the general alone in the chamber. Tullius crossed his arms, smiling humorlessly at her, his posture conveying nonchalance. Though, Gallica noticed, he was careful to maintain a distance from her that would allow him to draw his sword before she could reach him and one hand never strayed too far from his weapon.

"Say what you've come to say," he told her, dryly. "Windhelm's a long ride from here to waste time on pleasantries."

The light jab had its intended effect and Gallica flinched, embarrassed, before she was able to continue.

"You told me at High Hrothgar that you expected to see me in Solitude when everything was resolved. I'm here to report in."

An grey eyebrow raised incredulously, and Tullius shook his head with a silent huff, as if she had said something mildly amusing.

"You make a poor spy, Gallica. You're too honest. Ulfric must be getting bad advice indeed from his generals if this ruse was the best he could come up with."

"I know how it looks," she insisted, vexed, trying to make him understand. "I wouldn't believe it either if I were in your place.  I'm not a spy. That's not what I came here for."

"And I would like to believe you," Tullius remarked, shrugging, "But the matter is no longer that simple.  Everyone in Skyrim knows where you've been. You see the position that puts me in here."

"I know that. I allowed -- other factors -- to influence my judgment," Gallica insisted, straightening. "But I'm here now, General. You were right when you said that there were no ex-Legionnaires. If the Empire still needs me, then I've come to honor my oaths. Whatever that now entails."

Tullius studied her, considering, and then shook his head.

"Fine words, but we're beyond words at this point.  You're compromised.  It's a risk that I would be hard pressed to justify to the Emperor."

"I'll re-enlist. Bust me back to the rank and file and set me out to guard a wall top somewhere out of the way, it doesn't make a difference to me at this point. I'll go where I'm told," Gallica assured him. She hesitated. "I do have one request, General."

"No," Tullius barked at her severely, the irritation in his expression surfacing quickly again. "If you're serious about coming back into the Legion, it will be as a soldier, not a mercenary. You either come back in on our terms or not at all. I don't have time for special cases and conditions and people bucking the system, and I don't care how special the Nords think you are. I can use you. You're an asset, but you'd be an asset sitting in a dungeon where Ulfric can't use you as a propaganda tool, too. If I agree to give you the chance to prove yourself, it'll be as any other soldier. Are we clear on that?"

"Completely," she clarified, immediately.  "I did not come here to bargain.  I;ll accept whatever terms are offered."

But she could not help herself.  Gallica felt her shoulders slump a little as she looked up at the General.

"Tullius, I'm not asking this as the Dragonborn. I'm not asking this of you as a commander. This is a personal request of someone I would consider a friend."

He stared at her for a long moment, his eyes searching hers, and she thought she saw a glimpse of some deeper emotion - the same momentary vulnerability that she had seen when he had left her room on High Hrothgar.

"What is it?"

"Take Ulfric alive." She pressed on as she saw his expression change and preempted a sharp reply. "I know how it sounds.  I'm not asking for you to make peace with him or pardon him or allow him to escape the consequences of what he's done.  I know it's war and things happen that no one has any control over.  But I'm asking you: if it's possible, if there's a moment where you get to make the call, take Ulfric Stormcloak alive. That's all."

Tullius seemed lost for words. His stony visage, normally unshakable, was troubled. He scrutinized her for a long moment.

"You know that he has to die one way or the other. He murdered the High King, started a rebellion. Those are serious charges and we can't let them go unanswered. Whether he dies in battle or whether we execute him later, he's finished. You have to understand that."

 _Not if I can help it_ , Gallica thought, but nodded all the same.

"I know."

"I'm not sure whether what you're asking is mercy or cruelty. Seems a quick death on the field would be cleaner." Tullius concluded, finally, with a sigh. He pondered for a moment and then his gaze flicked to hers, seriously. "I can promise you nothing.  All I can say is that I will take it under consideration.  If the situation allows, I will spare Ulfric until a trial can decide his fate."

"That's all I ask."

The general grunted his acknowledgement, his expression going thoughtful and inward for an instant, before turning his attention sharply back to her.

"But, that's a question for the future. Right now, you've got a lot of work to do before you've earned back your place here. Report to Rikke in the morning. Convince her that you're worth it, and we'll talk about your reinstatement."

"Yes, sir."

"Dismissed."

Gallica saluted and turned to find her way back to the courtyard, her mind a roiling cyclone of conflicting thoughts. On one side, she was relieved to finally have made a decision and to be assured that she was making the best choice for the most people - the only conscionable choice she could have made, really. At the same time, she was terribly afraid - both for Ulfric and of what would happen when he found out what she had done tonight. The wheels were in motion now, and there was no stopping it. If her plan worked, Skyrim and the Empire would be protected and Ulfric would still be alive.

Even if he never forgave her for it.


	8. The Oath

"So," Rikke said when Gallica presented herself at the keep the following morning, "I'm told that you want to re-enlist."

The older soldier's tone was curt, business-like, and there was no trace of last night's anger. Gallica had no illusions that the Legate was well-pleased with the situation, but she knew enough of Rikke to know that the woman was dutiful above all else. If Tullius had given her an order, she would follow it whether she approved of it or not. That did not mean that she was going to make it easy, though.

"Yes, ma'am."

"General Tullius thinks you deserve a chance to prove yourself. Fair enough. After everything that happened with the dragons, you could be useful.  If you're really past your recent 'lapse of judgment', that is. We’ll see about that.  For now, I want to see that you’re good to your word.  So, show me that you're competent and willing to follow orders, and I'll recommend you for reinstatement."

"What _are_ my orders, ma’am?" Gallica asked.  She had expected this.  Earning the Legate’s trust would be difficult, but not impossible. And Rikke clearly already had a task in mind.

"Skyrim is dotted with old forts. Most of them haven't been garrisoned in ages, but we're trying to bring some of the best back into service. Unfortunately, places like that attract bandits and other undesirables. I'm sending you up to Fort Hraagstad northwest of the city to deal with a nest of bandits and clear out the fort so we can put a garrison up there to watch the coast."

"I'm going alone?" Gallica asked, her heart sinking.

While not as frivolous as the task Galmar had set for her, it was no less reckless. Sending one person to clear out a couple dozen bandits in a fortified position, normally a job for a squadron, would be a suicide mission under most circumstances. She had not figured Rikke for the subtle type, but it was more than possible that the Legate was hoping Gallica wouldn't come back at all – thereby neatly solving the problem of whether she could be trusted or not.

"Not so confident after all, then?" Rikke observed and grinned, meanly. "Yes. This is a test, soldier. You're no green recruit that needs a soft job to ease into. You were an officer in the triarii before and you've been out killing dragons for the last few months. Slapping a set of armor on you and sending you out in patrol would be a waste of talent. I want to see what you're capable of."

"By your orders, ma’am," Gallica replied, resigned, and Rikke nodded in satisfaction.

"Good, that's what I wanted to hear. Take a look at the map, get your gear together, and go get me that fort, soldier.  Dismissed."

Gallica saluted and walked over to the map to find the best route to the fort, mentally preparing herself for the task ahead and going over what equipment she would need. There was no doubt in her mind that she could handle the bandits - she had been up against steeper odds before. If Rikke felt it necessary to make her dance to prove her worth, so be it. The sooner this war got started properly, the sooner she could see it ended, and the more likely Ulfric would be in one piece when it was over.

~~0~~

The fort was situated on a ridge overlooking the northern coast - an excellent strategic vantage point for both the land and sea sides of the headland. Small wonder that Rikke wanted it cleared out.  The fort’s secure location, however, was not going to make taking it back from the bandits any easier.

Fat snowflakes hung in the air like huge, white insects as Gallica crept along the tree line, counting on the weather and nearby cover to keep her presence hidden. She only counted a few sentries on the walls, half-heartedly strolling the parapets and no doubt counting the minutes until they could go back inside and sit next to a warm fire with their mates. She needed to draw the sentries out, but not all at once. If she kept them guessing, got them good and riled up and scared, their mistakes would make her task easier.

This had always been the part of her job that Gallica disliked most. The men inside the fort were career criminals and would murder her without a thought if they could and that made it easier to blunt her emotions towards them, but she had never really picked up the zeal for killing that other fighters seemed to. Still, it needed to be done.  And better that it be done quickly.

She set up behind an outcrop of rocks within range of the fort and hunkered down, finding the angle from which she would be the least visible while still getting a good shot at the walls. The bow she had had fashioned for herself was dragonbone, its string made of the supple and strong wing tendons of one of the many dragons that she had killed. It was light, but had a weight behind it that could punch easily through all but the most well-made armor. She was no career archer, but you never knew when you might find yourself on a wall top during a siege and her eye was not bad for a heavy fighter. 

Settling into place, she waited until one of the sentries dawdled too long and exhaled as she drew the arrow back, sighting along the deadly shaft.

The bandit dropped with hardly a sound. A few seconds later, one of his fellows ran up, checking the dead man and then peering out over the parapet. Her next arrow punched cleanly through the ocular of the man’s helm, taking him through the eye and snapping his neck backwards with an faintly audible crunch before he toppled off the wall like a ragdoll.

"Over here!" she heard someone yell from inside the compound, and two men ran out between the barricades. Gallica dropped down out of sight quickly, laying her bow down and drawing her sword, waiting.

"I swear it came from over here," A rough voice said from somewhere in front of her.

She tilted her head and leaned so that she could glance quickly over the top of the rock without showing too much of her face. The men were moving in her direction, checking behind trees, kicking bushes. Her heart racing, Gallica grasped the her shield harder and drew a deep, silent breath.

"Let's check those rocks," one of the men suggested and the footsteps drew closer.

When the moment was right, when they were nearly on her, she sprang up with a roar, bashing her shield into the face of the nearest bandit. His companion struck out at her, but she whirled in one smooth movement, parrying the shot and using the return momentum to drive the sword straight into his unprotected throat. Jerking her blade free, she pivoted in time to catch a blow from the other's greatsword on her shield.

"Never should have come here!" the man growled, fiercely, squaring up for another blow.

Instead of backing away, Gallica threw her weight behind her shield, slamming it against his chest so that he couldn't draw back to swing at her again with his heavy blade. The bandit tried to sidestep, rolling around the blockade, but she rolled with him and caught him with his side open, her blade laying open the unprotected gap under his left arm. The man's eyes widened in surprise as blood began to gush down his armor and his hesitation was all she needed to end it. 

Gallica slashed across his body mercilessly, catching him above his gorget and beneath his helm, finishing him off.  Bright, arterial blood sprayed across her breastplate and helm, and she turned towards the barricaded arch of the fortress, breaking into a charge as she neared it.

The men on the other side had only a moment to register what they were up against before a roaring Shout split the frigid air and a column of flame erupted from the helm of the dragon-armored warrior bearing down on them, engulfing them all and permanently ending their confusion. The few that were left in the training yard, seeing the hellish silhouette emerge from the flame on the other side, cursed and ran for higher ground. It was not long before the fort fell silent again, the only sounds the wind whistling over the tower and the steady crunch of footsteps on new-fallen snow as Gallica made her way back towards the main road to Solitude, her task complete.

~~0~~

"Back so soon?" Rikke asked, emerging from the side room as Gallica stepped into to entry corridor of the keep. She was tired, the whole interlude had taken most of the day and darkness was gathering outside.  But, there was the report to be given and no reason to delay. She wanted it over with.

"The fort is cleared, ma'am. The bandits have been neutralized," she said, straightening to attention.

"Good work, soldier," Rikke told her, with a tight smile.  The Legate knew that the task had not been trivial.  The praise was sincere. "We'll send men out there to set up a garrison shortly. Glad to see you made it back in one piece. I'm impressed."

Gallica did not know how to respond to that and she was too tired to search for words, so she waited. The Legate did not seem to expect a reply, anyway.

"As far as I'm concerned, you've earned your place here. And, I think I've got just the task for you. Before we go any further, let's go make your enlistment official."

She followed Rikke into the war-room. Tullius was there, hunched over the map, and he looked up as they entered.  His eyes fixed immediately on Gallica. He seemed more energized than he had the day before, more robust, and his smile when he saw her seemed genuinely pleased.  At least, it was more than just his usual half-cynical grin.

"Sir. Fort Hraagstad has been recovered, thanks to the recruit here," Rikke explained, nodding to Gallica as if presenting a satisfactory piece of work. Gallica remained still.

"Good. I assume this means she meets with your approval."

"Yes, sir."

The General stood straight and looked Gallica up and down as if taking her measure.  It was a pointed gesture.  He had already decided to take her back into the Legion, she knew.  This was a message, both for her and Rikke – that she was still not above his scrutiny.

"Then, in light of the Legate's endorsement, the Legion is willing to reinstate your commission at the rank of Auxiliary," Tullius stated. "Consider the demotion comeuppance for your slow return and losing us Markarth at High Hrothgar – though, I'm sure you won't have a problem working your way back up.”

He paused, considering.  The tone in his voice changed, though the severity in his expression did not ease in the slightest.

“Are you sure that this is what you want? Once you're back in, you're with us till you’re released from service, the same as any other soldier.  No quarter.  No short measures. Last chance to back out."

Gallica hesitated briefly, understanding instinctively what Tullius was telling her between the words.  The war would be ugly – even uglier now once Ulfric knew that she had taken the Empire’s side against him.  Tullius would not spare her the full force of it.  He would hold her to her oaths, use her as was necessary to end the conflict, just as he would any other soldier.  And, there would be no third chance if she faltered again.

"I'm sure, sir.  This is where I’m meant to be," Gallica assured him, forcing herself to be certain although the words pulled at a dull ache in her heart as she thought of Ulfric.

"Good,” the General grunted. "Take the oath, then. I'd wager you still know it by heart."

"Upon my honor I do swear undying loyalty to the Emperor, Titus Mede II, and unwavering obedience to the officers of his great Empire," Gallica intoned. "May those above judge me, and those below take me, if I fail in my duty. Long live the Emperor! Long live the Empire!"

She punctuated the last phrase by smacking her fist over her heart, the noise of gauntlet against cuirass making the walls ring much as it had the first time she had spoken those words a little more than seven years ago. Everything had changed since then.  She had changed. The fire-bellied, idealistic girl she had been, eager to prove herself in light of her auspicious lineage, had been replaced by a more sober, cautious woman. The death of many of those original ideals were written as scars on her body and mind. She no longer believed in an Empire that could do no wrong. She no longer believed that the world could be summed up in the simplicity of duty to commanders, family, and Emperor. And yet, when she said the words, the memories of her father, her brother, and the stories of her grandfather flooded back and they felt right.

 Three generations of her family and more had fought and died to preserve the Empire. Gallica would not be the one to make their sacrifices in vain.

"Welcome back, Auxillary," Tullius told her, warmly now, reaching forward to clasp her forearm in congratulation. It was the first time she could remember him ever touching her, though Gallica thought that it was likely her imagination that he held the gesture for a fraction of a second longer than necessary.

"Find an empty rack down in the barracks. You'll need to go to the smith to get your gear tomorrow. Come find me when you're uniformed and ready to go,” Rikke ordered.

Gallica nodded and turned to go collect her belongings from the inn. As she made her way down through the fortifications to the road below, she wondered what Ulfric was doing tonight and whether he was worried for her - whether he knew where she was. Her heart ached to be with him, to be lying next to him in the dark, like a thousand other women that the war had separated from their men.  It would be a long time before that was possible, if it ever would be again. And so the only things she could do was hope and plan and keep moving forward.

 


	9. The Jagged Crown

Being back in her old uniform was strange. Gallica tightened the last strap on the segmented lorica and twisted her torso, swinging her shoulders back and forth to test the fit against binds and weaknesses. Her original set of lorica had been left behind at her family estate in Cyrodiil.  She had never thought to need it again.  Her own dragon-plate armor was better quality and more comfortable, but there was a point being made here and the smith had done good work fitting the stock armor to her dimensions so quickly.

"Not bad," she determined finally, pleased.  The smith handed her the new helm.

"Wear it in good health," he replied, before adding a warning.  "And take care of that gear. We only issue you one set. A little oil and grit now and then will go a long way to making sure that armor stays between you and a Stormcloak axe."

"I will," she promised, restraining her smile as she thanked the smith before turning back towards the keep.  The man obviously didn't recognize her and it was strangely amusing to be thought a fresh recruit again after all she had been through.

The guards and soldiers training in the courtyard nodded at her as she passed and it reminded her of why she had originally loved serving in the Legion - and also why she had left.

Class and racial distinctions diminished in importance when you all wore the same uniform, ate the same food, slept in the same barracks, and shed blood together under the same banner. The friends you made the Legion were the friends that would stick by you for life.  Life had been simpler then. Shehad never worried much about where to go or what to do because there had always been someone there to tell her what to do. All that was required of a soldier was to follow orders, keep your superiors happy and your subordinates in line, and not ask too many questions. But after losing friends and comrades in the field, after news of her brother's death had reached her, Gallica had had nothing but questions.

As she reached the keep, Gallica heard the voice of Tullius and his second in command in the war room.  She paused in the foyer, waiting for the conversation to conclude before presenting herself as ordered.  The general sounded annoyed already this morning.

"I'm entrusting you with what resources I can spare. But I'm warning you, if this turns out to be a waste of time and men --"

"It won't be a waste," assured Rikke, confidently.  For all her sharp edges, the Nord woman was capable and an astute adviser on matters regarding the local history and culture.  Gallica found herself smiling faintly as she wondered what Rikke was having to argue Tulius into this time.

The Imperial general grunted, his eyes lighting on Gallica as he glanced through to doorway.

"Take the new Auxiliary here. You can send her back with a report when you get there and find nothing but old bones and cobwebs."

"Stone-Fist is no fool. He's found the Crown. But we'll get to it first," Rikke assured him, declining to rise to the bait as she saluted and turned to leave.

A few seconds later, the Legate emerged from the war-room looking tired. No doubt Rikke had her hands full trying to steer her superior officer through matters of the local people that he was unwilling to understand. An underappreciated job, if Gallica had to guess about it.

"Welcome back to the Legion. Listen up." Rikke began unceremoniously as she turned to Gallica. "Galmar Stone-Fist, who I'm guessing you're already acquainted with from the look on your face, has located what he believes is the final resting place of the Jagged Crown. We're going to make sure he doesn't get his hands on it."

"The Jagged Crown, ma'am?" Gallica prompted, a gentle reminder to the Legate that she was a foreigner in Skyrim.  Rikke sighed.

"I forget you weren't raised here and wouldn't have heard the stories. It's a legendary crown, a powerful relic of Skyrim's golden age. Made from the bones and teeth of ancient dragons. It's supposed to increase the power of the wearer. Whether that's true or not, the last thing we need is for Ulfric to get his hands on it. It would be a powerful symbol in his favor. Galmar thinks it's in Korvanjund, a ruin northeast of Whiterun, and he wouldn't be putting so many resources into recovering it if he wasn't sure it was there."

"Understood." Gallica replied, and Rikke nodded curtly.

"I've assembled a unit from the Whiterun cohort and they should be waiting in the area already. We'll rendevouz with them outside of Korvanjund. I'll be right behind you, once I finish up here."

"By your orders." Gallica saluted and turned to go.

"Auxiliary," Rikke barked.  Gallica turned. The Legate had a fixed, focused look, as if holding back something else she wanted to say.  For a moment, she seemed to weigh her words, and then she nodded.  "I'm trusting you on this. Don't make me regret it."

Gallica nodded, understanding the unspoken message as she pressed her fist to her heart in acknowledgement.

"Of course, ma'am."

~~0~~

The snow was thick in the air by the time Gallica spotted the Legion soldiers camped in a grove of trees just off of the mountain trail near Whiterun. As she dismounted and tied her horse, a familiar face stepped out from the group of soldiers towards her.

"Dragonborn!"

"Hadvar," Gallica called back, genuinely pleased, as the young man broke into a broad grin and reached out to clasp her forearm. The Imperial soldier looked a little more weathered since the last time she had seen him, but he still possessed the boyish smile that she remembered from Helgen.  The war, it seemed, hadn't yet crushed that out of him.

"Good to see you again, friend. I knew you'd do the right thing," he told her, clapping her shoulder.

This was the what she had missed about the Legion.  The sense of belonging.  The sense of being able to fold seamlessly into the ranks no matter where you ended up.

"Old habits die hard," she replied, pushing down her sense of nostalgia as she looked past her friend towards the other soldiers. "Legate Rikke shouldn't be far behind."

"Truth be told," her friend admitted as they turned to crunch back through the snow towards the others, "I'm glad you're going to be down there with us. These old ruins - they don't want us here."

"I know what you mean."

Gallica had explored too many dark, draugr-filled barrows already to doubt what Hadvar was getting at.

"Still, we're the Empire's soldiers and we'll do our duty, right?" he continued with forced cheerfulness, as if trying to bolster his own spirits.

They turned at the sound of hoofbeats to see Rikke trotted up the slope on horseback.  Her shaggy, dun-colored mount stamped and exhaled steam into the frigid air as she dismounted and the nearby soldiers crowded around as the Legate shook the snow off her shoulders and looked around.

"What's the situation?"

"Stormcloaks were already camped around the entrance when we got here," one man ventured. "I don't think they know we're here yet."

"Well, that's something at least," Rikke sighed.  Her gaze raked suspiciously across Gallica for an instant.  "Damned rebels. At least we've got the element of surprise."

She turned fully to Gallica, making a show of it.  This was the theater of command.  The soldiers knew who she was now.  Gallica could see excitement alongside the trepidation in their faces.  The Legate smiled grimly.

"You ready, Auxiliary?"

"On your command, ma'am."

"Good. Form up."

The soldiers perpared themselves.  Gallica unstrapped the shield from her shoulders, fastening it around her forearm and testing the grip, stretching and loosening her joints after the long ride. The Imperial steel sang against its scabbard as she drew the wasp-waisted sword that she had been issued, the memory of her previous years of service flooding back to her instantly. It was both nostalgic and deeply unsettling at the same time.

"Listen up, legionnaires," Rikke barked, all commander now that the battle loomed ahead. "Ulfric the Pretender wants that Crown. General Tullius is counting on us to keep that from happening. We all know men on the other side. But remember, they're the enemy now and they won't hesitate to kill you. So, let's show those rebels what real soldiers look like.  Move out!"

And with the order given, the Legion's mission was begun.  The soldiers crept among the rocks towards the ruins, slowly, the soft snow muffling the sound of their approach. The Stormcloak camp was quiet, perhaps half a dozen men all told left to guard the entrance and act as sentries. At Rikke's nod, the two archers nocked their bows.

"Now!" she cried and the deadly zing of the bowstrings was lost in the crash of armor and shields as the foot-soldiers roared over the rise and down into the ravine.

Gallica was near the front, cleaving through one sentry as easily as kindling and kicking out with a hobnail boot at a second who was running up the stairs towards them.  She sent the Stormcloak flailing backwards onto into space.  He hit the ground hard, where another soldier easily dispatched him as they swept past. The legionnaires fanned out into the space below, trapping two rebels in a dead end and the rest on the ledge above. An arrow grazed Gallica's helmet and she locked shields with Hadvar and the soldier on her left, advancing under the cover of the shield wall while others swarmed up to deal with the archers on the ledge.  Within minutes, every Stormcloak lay dead.  Crimson stains spread out around them and reddened the churned up snow.

"Good job," Rikke called, as the soldiers rolled the corpses of the archers off of the ledge onto the pile of their fellows below. "It won't get easier, though. Some of these rebels are ex-Legion. They know how to fight and the advantage of surprise won't last. Go in quietly. It'll be all close-quarters fighting from here."

~~0~~

The Legion soldiers swept through the outer temple with hardly any trouble dispatching the Stormcloak rearguard and continued into the narrow tunnels of the catacombs until, at last, they arrived at a bottleneck.

"Find a way around it," Rikke ordered Gallica. "There are Stormcloaks waiting on the otherside, I can feel it. We're not marching right into a deathtrap."

After exploring a few dozen of these barrows during the months that she was searching for a way to defeat Alduin, Gallica had begun to develop a sense for how the labyrinths were constructed. A little searching and backtracking, stirring up the ancient dust as she crept along walls and checked crevices, revealed a low, narrow set of tunnels that emerged onto a catwalk.  Rikke was correct.  There were Stormcloaks waiting just beyond the bottleneck.  A few well-placed arrows cleared the way and created enough confusion for Rikke and the other soldiers to charge through and clean up the rest.

As they wound their way further down into the ruins, Rikke stopped, making a silent cupped-ear gesture to call for silence.

"I don't like this," a shaky youthful voice echoed from somewhere ahead. "We should go back."

"You deaf, boy?" another voice grumbled. "You didn't hear that ruckus behind us? Only way out now is down."

"But Torgill - and that _thing . . ._ "

Rikke nodded and they spilled into the chamber ahead. The younger Stormcloak cursed, fumbling with his bow as he backed away from the onslaught. Rikke crossed the space and was on him almost immediately, while Gallica rushed the older, more formidable-looking rebel as he raised his heavy axe, using her body-weight and momentum to slam the heavily armored man sideways into the wall. Hadvar appeared next to her, dispatching the Stormcloak to Sovngarde before he could recover.  Gallica nodded, panting, to her friend as she righted herself, but something else had attracted the legionnaire's attention.

"What in the nine holds is that?" exclaimed one of the soldiers as the rest gathered around an object on the ground.  

A withered draugr lay crumpled on the stones, its skeletal grin exposed and mocking.  Gallica shivered.  She hated draugr worse than any other enemy she had come across.  Although the people of Skyrim often viewed them as the protectors of the dead, she had grown up in the south where the dead were supposed to stay dead.

"Looks like it's been dead for hundreds of years. Can't be what killed that Stormcloak over there…right?" a younger Cyrodiilic soldier asked, hopefully, motioning nervously to the body of a third Stormcloak propped against the wall nearby.  The dead man was sitting in a slick pool of his own gore, dead eyes still frozen open in surprise.

"We've faced worse than some dusty old bonewalkers," Rikke interjected, tersely.  "Come on. We're not leaving here till we get what we came for."

Anxiously, the soldiers fell in behind her and Gallica glanced over at Hadvar. He looked pale, his hand involuntarily reaching for the amulet around his neck - for comfort or prayer. she cuffed him on the shoulder lightly to bring him back to the present.

"That was a clean blow before. That Stormcloak was a big bastard.  You likely saved my hide."

"You were the one who pinned him," Hadvar replied modestly, but she saw him smile, pleased with the praise.

At least it took his mind off of the draugr for a few moments.

Draugr corpses began to appear more frequently, and more than once they found fresh blood trails leading to dead Stormcloak that were poised in death as if they had been frantically trying to drag themselves away from some horror. The only one they found alive, huddling in an alcove with most of his entrails ripped out, Rikke dispatched quickly out of mercy. Finally, they arrived at a long, wide hall with intricate carvings. Dark stains streaked the dusty floor, leading to a pile of dead rebels laying in front of one of the now all-to-familiar dragon doors.

"And this must be the Hall of Stories," said Rikke, sheathing her sword. "Look around. We need to find a way in."

"These doors all have a key." Gallica replied, looking around, "Did anyone find something that looked like a large claw on one of the dead Stormcloaks? Perhaps with some symbols on it?"

The soldiers stared at her blankly, but Rikke accepted the advice with an approving grunt and pointed at the bodies.

"Check those over there. See what you can find."

Gallica moved carefully over to the corpses, kneeling down next to them and trying not to look too carefully at their faces. She had spent little enough time with the Stormcloak soldiers themselves, but Ralof and a few others had done well by her and she worried that she might find one of them among the dead.  With the war heating up, then it was likely she would find herself face to face in battle with one of her friends and it would be her sword that laid them low.  If it could not be avoided, it was better not to know. After a few seconds, she found what she was looking for.

"What's that?" Rikke said, walking over as Gallica stood, brandishing a large ebony claw.

"Our key."

"Careful," the Legate cautioned from behind her as Gallica studied the pattern of shapes on the claw and began to move the huge stone tumblers into place. Once the combination was applied and the claw inserted, there was a deep boom and the door began to slide downward into the stonework. A waft of stale, fetid air exuded from the entrance, and Gallica heard several of the soldiers mutter supplications to the Eight behind her.

"Good work." Rikke murmured before turning back to the others.  She rapped out her command sharply, though even Gallica could detect the strain in her voice now. "Let's move on. Keep your guard up."

Gallica stepped through the door, her heart beginning to pound as she sensed a familiar, low vibration in her chest - the gravitational force of a Word that lay further inside pulling at the dragon-blood within her. She wondered what she would find there, even as she dreaded what would no doubt be guarding it.

~~0~~

One of the archers fell to the draugr in the antechamber beyond the door, his head nearly cleaved from his body before any of them could react to the sudden assault. When the thing had been dispatched, Rikke tried to steady the rattled soldiers, but Gallica could feel the fear radiating off of them.

"We have to be close by now. The crown should be here somewhere," the Legate said, coaxing the men through the last lengths of tunnels and into the high-vaulted crypt beyond.  "All we need to do is find it. Spread out and keep your eyes open."

Gallica was barely listening. The Word was close, she could feel it the thrum of it reverberating through her temples. She looked around, searching for wall on which she would find the inscription, her eyes lighting on the throne in the center of the room just as Rikke's voice snapped her back into the moment.

"Hadvar, get away from there!"

She looked up to see Hadvar staggering back in alarm from where he had approached the throne.  The tall draugr that had been setting there - and yes, it wore a spiny crown of bone and dragon teeth on its brow -  was rising.  It's eyes took on a cold, blue glow that glinted off of its armor - the best steel of a bygone age. With a hollow crash, the coffins lining the walls split and fell open one by one, their skeletal occupants emerging in defense of their dead lord with their weapons in hand.  Their eyes were like the dead light of frozen stars. Rikke had already started moving forward towards Hadvar, but Gallica could tell even she was reluctant to engage the ancient king. The deathlord unsheathed his sword with a dry growl that spurred Gallica into action.

" **Fus ro da!"**

The two draugr attendants were flung backwards, but the crowned wight only staggered. Still, it was enough time for Gallica to race past the Legate, burying her sword deep into the deathlord's chest and wrenching it free to strike again.

Growls emanated in chorus from the draugr on either side of her and the stone walls of the crypt echoed with the shouts of the soldiers and the clash of metal against metal as the fray began in earnest. Her blade tore through desiccated flesh of her opponent, but the dead did not recoil from pain like a living enemy.  The wight-king recovered enough to bring its sword - blazing with the same cold blue fire as its eyes - down on her. Gallica blocked, but only just in time.  Her knees jarred painfully from the sheer force of the blow. The stench of death and decay swept over her as she felt another blow from a draugr to her right glance off of her pauldron and scrape down her back in a shower of sparks. She bashed at it with her shield, scattering bones and the dust of decayed flesh, but the second attendant on her other side Shouted, the force of the Word causing her to stumble long enough for another blow to score the outside of her thigh. Suddenly Rikke was there, back to back with her, hacking viciously at the remaining draugr attendant and the skeletons that were closing in.

With Rikke defending her flanks, Gallica's attention narrowed down to a pinpoint. She moved with the Legate, whirling, slashing, redirecting blow after blow directed at them. The draugr's icy breath stung painfully on the bare skin of her face.  The inhumanly strong blows rattling her shield until she thought her arm would surely break, but at last, she could feel her opponent weakening, Gallica emitted a roar, the force of her Thu'um rending the sword from the draugr king's grasp as she brought her own blade down with every ounce of strength she could muster, cleaving cleanly through the dead king from neck to bare ribcage.  The old bones splintered as she saw the balefire go out of its eyes. Allowing the momentum of the blow to carry her around, she finished off the last of the draugr that Rikke had been keeping at bay and turned back to the battle, heaving with exertion, ready to spring on the next attacker.

The last of the walking corpses was cut down.  They were victorious.  But the price, Gallica saw, had been high. Two soldiers lay dead on the stones.  Several men were tending to wounded comrades on the ground.  One man groaned and cursed, clutching his hand over a deep, spurting wound in his gut as a potion of healing was hastily dug out for him. Not one of the survivors looked uninjured.

"Get the damned crown," Rikke told Gallica wearily before limping over to assist the others.

The Legate's face was streaked with blood and pinched with pain.  Her armor was covered with dust and blood and Rikke had her own injuries, too.  One leg seemed likely to crumple beneath her at any moment.  But first, Rikke looked to her men - checking wounds, dispensing potions from her own store, and generally pulling the unit back together.  A good officer, Gallica thought.  She cared for her soldiers.

Grimacing from the dull pain that was beginning to radiate from the deep wound in her thigh, Gallica pulled a potion from her belt and tossed it back, feeling the ache turn to a light sting as the wound knit itself back together.  A prickling warmth suffused her body, lessening the ache of bruised flesh as she reached down among the shattered draugr bodies and carefully lifted the Jagged Crown from the ruined head of its former owner. The crown gleamed dully in the dim torchlight and Gallica could not escape the momentary impression that it was a rather unremarkable artifact really to have been worth all this bloodshed.  But then, she had an entire set of armor made of dragon bone.  The Jagged Crown, to anyone but the Dragonborn, would seem exquisite and rare.

"Take the Crown back to General Tullius," Rikke told Gallica, glancing over her shoulder as she helped the badly wounded man, now healing rapidly before their eyes as the health potion took effect, up from the floor. She clapped the dazed soldier on the shoulder. "We'll stay here and look around.  See if there's anything else useful."

More likely, Rikke wanted a little extra time to make sure the men were healed and rested enough to travel.  From the look on Hadvar's face, staring with wide eyes at the inert draugr around him, they would need the time to pull themselves together before moving out.

"Ma'am." She saluted and turned to go, though she still had one thing to do.

Walking towards the back of the crypt, she was drawn to the ceremonial alcove that she knew instinctively would be there.  Its inscription was muted by years of decay, but Gallica could still make out the deep grooves. One word began to glow brightly from its surface as she approached, becoming stronger and more luminescent with every step she took towards it until the light was blinding.

 _ **Tiid**_ , a voice spoke in her mind.  

 _Time_.  She would meditate upon it later to find the use and fit it into the rest of her knowledge of the Thu'ums, but that would have to wait. No longer a free-range Dragonborn, orders were orders and too many people had died for the Jagged Crown today to let it wait.

~~0~~

Castle Dour shone a dull red in the last of the anemic sunset when Gallica returned, tendrils of fog already beginning to creep up from the wharf below as the sun dipped below the wintery horizon. She found Tullius just sitting down to a hasty meal in his office, still pouring over maps and field reports as he did so.

He glanced up at her as she entered, his hawkish concentrated expression easing as his eyes lit on her face.

"At ease," he told her and made a dismissive gesture before she could stand to attention. "It's too late in the evening for ceremony.  Give me the report."

Wordlessly, Gallica removed the Jagged Crown from the burlap sacking she had wrapped around it and held it out to the general. Tullius paused, setting down the bread and cheese he had been munching on and wiping his hands as he took the object from her, turning it in the torchlight and studying its curves and angles with interest.

"So, it does exist.  This is the legendary Jagged Crown, I presume. I have to admit, I had my doubts. Rikke was right, as usual," he mused, thoughfully. "Did you run into any trouble retrieving it?"

"The Stormcloaks were there before us, sir," Gallica explained and Tullius glanced up at her sharply. "Legate Rikke sent me ahead with the Crown while she stayed to see to the wounded and scout out the rest of the tomb."

He digested this information, frowning.

"I see. Casualties?"

"Two dead. Most wounded, but nothing a few potions and a healer can't handle, sir.  It was a tough fight, but we prevailed."

Tullius grunted and set the crown down on the table.

"Unfortunate that we lost men, but it could have been worse.  And I have no doubt we would have lost more without you there." He waved to the chair across from him. "Sit. Eat. I have another assignment to discuss with you."

Hesitating for a moment, she complied, though she did not touch the food until he insisted.  The General shoved his plate towards her, snorting.

"Eat. There's more than enough and evening mess is over with. Didn't anyone ever tell you never to turn down a meal, a warm bed, or - well, you get the idea."

"Isn't it against regulations to fraternize with a lowly Auxiliary?" Gallica asked, smiling as she reaching for a piece of bread.  She sensed that Tullius had moved the conversation from the military realm to the personal realm, and so she could speak more freely.

He raised a grey eyebrow at her with an amused huff.

"I'll make an exception for one that kills world-eating dragons," the general told her wryly.  He sobered slightly, addressing her seriously. "I know you worked hard for your rank down in Cyrodiil.  Don't take the demotion personally.  Examples have to be made."

"I can appreciate that," Gallica assured him.  

The demotion didn't bother her, in truth.  She had been poised for promotion to Legate before she had left the Legion, but she had been dreading it at the time.  With greater rank came great responsibility and expectation, as well as greater regret for her mistakes.  And she had had expectations and regrets enough already.

"Good," Tullius acknowledged, relaxing a bit.  "This business with the Crown should put any outstanding concerns to bed. If you were working for Ulfric, this would have been a perfect opportunity to show your true colors. But keep a close watch on where you go and who you associate with all the same.  I know that you're an honorable woman.  I trust you with more than I can give you at present, but we're walking a thin line.  Speaking of which: I don't suppose that you can tell me what Ulfric is planning."

Gallica had been expecting this conversation to come eventually.  She sighed, feeling the heaviness return to her as she thought of Ulfric.  She shook her head.

"I wasn't privy to his strategies. All I know is that he intends on attacking Whiterun soon.  Which I'm sure you already know."

"Hmm." The general leaned back in his chair, studying her for a long moment before continuing. "We're off duty here, so I won't blame you if you tell me that it's none of my business.  There is something that I want to know, however. What did Ulfric say to you that night up on High Hrothgar?"

Gallica was careful to keep her expression neutral, but the question caught her by surprise all the same. She had been certain that no one had witnessed her conversation with Ulfric in the training yard and the kiss that had set everything she had gone through in the last two weeks into motion.  And yet Tullius had been waiting for her when she went back inside. It made sense.  Small wonder then that he had been so agitated when she had met him the hallway outside of her quarters.

There was no reason to make a secret of it now.  Gallica nodded, acquiescing.

"You know Ulfric.  He wanted me to join him in the war.  He wanted some assurance that I would come down on his side when everything was done."

"That's all?"

She could tell that Tullius didn't quite believe her and that he knew more than he was saying.  Gallica clanged up at him, willing her face into an expression of anemic humor.

"You know how dramatic he can be," she replied dismissively, though she could feel a spike of pain growing in her heart as she remembered the earnestness in his face that night, the memory of the kiss on her lips like a wound. She shook her head.  "He's building his legend. He wanted the Dragonborn to be part of that."

"And that's not what you wanted."

The words were half statement and half question.  Tullius' dark eyes waited on her, searching her face for further clues.  This - she realized - was what he was truly getting at.  He wanted to know why she had left Windhelm.  He wanted to what Ulfric had promised her and why it had not been enough.

"I'm just a soldier," Gallica replied and shrugged.  She shook her head.  "I'm not cut out for legends. And I believe in the Empire.  I've seen the best and the worst of it and, when it comes right down to it, I don't want to see it fail."

This answer seemed to satisfy.  The general nodded, as if something had been confirmed for him.  He cocked his head slightly as he considered his next question carefully.

"So, Ulfric has no claim on you? There's nothing between you that might present a conflict of interest?"

"That, general, _is_ none of your business." Gallica said, smiling, but she inclined her head in acknowledgement that it was a valid question.  "I've chosen my side in this war, as I promised that I would do.  I will keep faith the Emperor - and with you. "

"Fair enough," Tullius agreed.  His tone was gentler now, not the rough bark of a commander.  He pushed a sealed square of parchment across the table towards her.  "In light of that, I have a job for you.  I need someone that I can trust to deliver this to Jarl Balgruuf. With Ulfric setting his sights on Whiterun, maybe Balgruuf can finally be convinced to accept the Legion's assistance. I understand you hold standing in his court and that he holds you in high esteem. Do whatever you have to do to make sure he comes down on our side."

She took the letter and nodded, standing. The general sighed.  He glanced up at her.

"This war is going to heat up quickly once Whiterun gets involved. I'm going to need you at your best."

"My best is all I have to offer," Gallica replied.

He smiled, a private thought to himself, and then waved her off.

"Go get me Whiterun and then we'll see about getting you promoted. Can't encourage fraternization, can we?"


	10. The Messenger

As Gallica descended into the broad, windswept plains that surrounded Whiterun, she felt energized at the prospect of spending a night in her own house and her own bed again. Without her noticing, Whiterun had replaced her family estate in Cyrodiil as the place that came to mind when she thought of home. Her father's people had come from Whiterun and his distant cousins in the city were now perhaps the only living blood family she could claim. She had buried her brother's remains in the crypts there alongside ancient generations of their ancestors. Though, nominally, the family estate just outside of the Imperial City still belonged to her, Gallica did not think it likely now that she would ever return there in life.  That house, in her mind, would always belong to her grandfather and her parents. Breezehome Cottage in Whiterun was the only house that had ever been hers alone and she felt safe there.

Little had changed from her last visit, she saw, as she entered the city's wide gates. Despite the precarious political climate, the streets seemed peaceful. Adrianne, busy working the forge at Warmaiden's, threw up a hand briefly in greeting as Gallica passed through and Gallica reciprocated the gesture. She was known here - as a Thane, as a friend.  Not only as the Dragonborn. That was why this was her home and why it was important, for the sake of Balgruuf and everyone else in the city, that she succeed on this mission.

She stopped off briefly at the house to leave her gear and freshen up. Lydia greeted her with relief and enthusiasm and Gallica remembered that it was the first time she had seen or spoken with her housecarl since she had left to confront Alduin.

"I'm fine. Everything is fine," she assured the younger woman.

"We heard that you had returned, but I was worried when you didn't come back here. I wanted to go after you to make sure you were truly alright, but --"

"You're needed here. I had business elsewhere, but I'm back now."

Lydia eyed Gallica's Legion armor at that comment, but wisely chose to avoid the subject.

"Will you be staying long? Should I send to the market for anything special?"

"No, it's fine, Lydia. I need to meet with the Jarl and then I have to be on my way again. Go about your business as usual."

The carl seemed disappointed, but Gallica clapped her on the shoulder fondly.

"You've done well here while I've been gone. It's a load off of my shoulders to know that my holdings here are in good hands."

Lydia preened happily at the praise and excused herself. Gallica watched her go and then looked around at the cozy interior of her home. If it came down to it, she had no doubt Lydia _would_ defend the place with her life. And it was Gallica's job to see that it never came to that. No rest for the weary.

Quickly, she washed the travel dirt and sweat from her body, rebraided her hair, ran an oilcloth over the outside of her armor to shine it, and then began the climb to Dragonsreach. She would need to be at her best for what was to follow.

~~0~~

"Dragonborn," Balgruuf acknowledged her, grinning as Gallica approached the High Seat.  The Jarl rose and prevented her from bowing by reaching to clasp her arm. "It has been some time since we've seen you in Whiterun. I've not had the chance to congratulate you on your victories. Welcome home, friend."

"It's good to be back home, Jarl Balgruuf," she replied, unable to hide her smile despite the fact that she was nominally here on official business and meaning it from the depth of her being.

It had only been a few months ago that she had stood in this same place while Balgruuf told her that she was Dragonborn. Weeks ago, she had stood here and bid him farewell before she had flown away to Sovngarde. And here she was, yet again to ask him to end his neutrality and begin the war in earnest. All of her paths seemed to lead back to Whiterun.

"You must stay and eat with us. I'm anxious to hear about your battle with the World-Eater," the Jarl told her.

"I would be honored," she acknowledge, smiling briefly, before straightening. "Unfortunately, I have an errand that needs to be fulfilled. I carry a message for you from General Tullius."

The warm hall became suddenly quiet.  Gallica saw both the Jarl's reedy Imperial steward and his zealous hulk of a younger brother step forward.  Balgruuf's smile faded.

"So, you've decided to take up arms with the Legion.  I had heard differently," he sighed, but his sharp eyes flicked from the parchment back up to her quickly. "No doubt the General still wants to garrison troops in my hold and thinks the request will be better received coming from you, hmm?"

Gallica steeled herself for the words she would deliver next.  She liked Balgruuf.  She admired his commitment to the city and to his, til now, peaceful rule.  However, war was coming to Whiterun regardless.  All during her journey, she had turned over the words she would need to make the Jarl see that neither of them could afford to remain in the middle anymore.

"Whiterun has become my home, Jarl Balfruuf. I would not come if I did not think it was in the city's best interest."

Perhaps she had learned a thing or two from Ulfric, after all, for she could see the Jarl's pursed brow relax slightly at her courtesy and assurance.  Gallica ventured on.

"Ulfric plans to attack Whiterun. He has grown tired of waiting.  I have heard this from him personally in Windhelm and General Tullius' sources in the field confirm that the preparations are already under way. The General would send you a ordines of light infantry and two maniples of heavy triarii to help defend Whiterun, if you will allow it."

"I see." Balgruuf said, sitting back in his chair, his expression growing grave and increasingly concerned.  "Give the papers to my steward."

"Apologies, my Jarl, but I believe the General meant the letter for your eyes only."

"Proventus _is_ my eyes." Balgruuf growled, slightly irritated, but he accepted the letter.  Gallica waited as he opened it and squinted at the neat text, his brow creasing further, "Hmm. It seems you may be correct. If Ulfric were to attack Whiterun now --"

"Might I urge a cautious approach, my lord?" Proventus interjected, quickly. "We have waited this long.  And Jarl Ulfric has made no move to attack Whiterun yet."

"Prey waits," Irileth, the Dunmer housecarl, huffed from where she stood watchful as ever at Ulfric's left side.

"I have to agree with Irileth. It's time to act," the Jarl mused. The Imperial steward stepped forward, the pitch of his voice rising slightly.

"Lord, you are surely not suggesting an attack on Windhelm."

Balgruuf snorted and scowled.  He gestured dismissively in the air.  Gallica could tell that this was difficult for him.  The Jarl and Ulfric had a long history.  They had been rivals since they were children - the heirs of two powerful fathers laying the groundwork for future political disputes.  Balgruuf was envious of Ulfric's gift with the Voice, a talent he had been unable to learn when they were boys under the tutelage of the Greybeards.  Ulfric was envious of the wealth of Whiterun hold and of the respect that was paid to Balgruuf by the other Jarls.  This battle had been brewing for a very long time.

"I am not a fool," Balfruuf replied, at last.  His expression was tight and dark.  "I will not endanger my people unnecessarily.  I mean to challenge Ulfric to confront me as a man. These threats and hiding behind walls do no credit to any of us.  That is the way of things among the back-biting Imperial noblemen.  That is not the way of things in Skyrim.  If Ulfric wants to challenge me in the old way, as he did Torygg, so be it.  Let it be my blood that is spilled rather than the blood of my people."

"But Torygg -- Ulfric just walked up to the boy and murdered him," Proventus protested, alarmed, hearing Irileth's scorn.

"That boy was High King of Skyrim.  He accepted the challenge."

Balgruuf shook his head, curling his lip slightly as if remembering something unpleasant.

"I am no High King, but I'm no boy either. If Ulfric will meet me on the field, then all the better. But I would wager he would prefer to send his Stormcloaks to do it for him."

"He needs to prove the strength of his armies," agreed the housecarl.  The Dunmer woman's red eyes flashed with the scent of war.  Gallica remembered that Irileth and Balgruuf had been soldiers together long before he had become Jarl.  Some said, and Gallica was almost certain, that they were more than that to each other.  No one had better cause to look out for the Jarl's well-being than Irileth.  And that was, in part, why Gallica tended to trust the housecarl's acumen more than the somewhat cowardly Proventus.  Proventus, like so many low-ranking Imperials, would remain loyal only so long as the wind was blowing in the right direction.

"Then why not accept General Tullius' offer?" the steward asked, wearily. "If you are bent on offending Jarl Ulfric, let it be the Legion that takes the brunt of the blow, rather than your own men."

"Proventus has a point," Irileth mused, glancing at her colleague and occasional opponent.  "For once.  From Ulfric's position, you have already sided with the Empire. The Legion would be a valuable ally."

"It seems cowardly," Balgruuf muttered, shaking his head, and Gallica saw Irileth smile, cunningly.

"Was it cowardly to accept the White-Gold Concordat?"

What seemed such an innocuous question hit Balgruuf like a catapult missile.  The Jarl's face flushed and he bristled.

"I was given no choice in that matter." Balgruuf vented angrily.  "They never asked the Jarls. We were given no chance to object to the terms of the treaty. We were told. And we had to like it!"

"The chests of gold didn't hurt," Proventus ventured, but he clearly did not have Irileth's grasp of the Jarl's inner demons.

"Damn it, this isn't about gold!" the Jarl of Whiterun bellowed, startling some of the servants who were beginning to set the table for dinner.  

A tray of meat crashed to the floor.  A matronly woman appeared from the kitchen, softly scolding a sniffling serving girl as they hurried the tray and the food back to the kitchen while another maid cleaned up the mess.  The distraction caused a welcome lull in the argument, which gave Balgruuf's anger time to cool.  He glowered at his steward, and the Imperial bowed obsequiously.

"Lord, before we commit to anything, let us simply see if Jarl Ulfric is serious."

"He is serious. But so am I."

Balgruuf turned to Gallica, reaching for the axe that leaned beside the High Seat.  He hefted it in his hands, looking it over with a tense expression, before holding it out to her.

"Dragonborn, I want you to take a message to our friend in Windhelm. Deliver my ax to Jarl Ulfric."

She accepted the ax, bemused, looking from it to the Jarl. He must have seen the confusion in her face because he shook his head wearily and explained as he leaned back on his throne.

"Just give the man my ax. If he returns it, we have business to settle. If he keeps it, then we are at peace."

She wanted to ask more questions, but she could already tell that Balgruuf was incensed.  It would do no good to prolong the encounter and she had ceased to question the eccentricities of Nord culture months ago. Gallica pressed her fist to her chest and bowed.

"As you wish, Jarl Balgruuf."

"If Ulfric returns the ax to you, get back here quickly," the Jarl warned her.  He studied her briefly, the anger in his eyes fading back to concern.  "He's not bluffing, and I'll need every able bodied warrior to defend the city when his Stormcloaks arrive."

Gallica nodded and turned, taking her leave and feeling as if a ball of hot lead were growing in her stomach.

Windhelm. Ulfric.

The task could not be delegated and there was no one to delegate it to besides. She would not send Lydia or anyone else into that bear's den. It would have to be her. She would have to face Ulfric again in person. She would have to see the look in his eyes when he understood what she had done and the mere idea of it cut Gallica to her very core.

~~0~~

Fate, it seemed, had decided only to taunt Gallica with the prospect of spending a quiet night in her own bed after all. She tossed and turned.  Nightmares assaulted her - a city in flames, Ulfric's face illuminated by the deadly light.  A whispering voice that she had never heard before, but which was familiar to her all the same.  She woke in the early hours soaked in her own sweat despite the chilly air, and dreaded the ride ahead of her.  But Balgruuf's message could not wait any longer than necessary. Lydia tried to impose herself on the journey - for protection, she said, to make sure that Gallica was not summarily arrested - but she was over-ruled.

"I need you here, especially if I fail and Ulfric marches on Whiterun," she told the disappointed housecarl, as she swung up onto her horse. "If all goes as planned, I'll be back tomorrow or the next day. Pray that the Divines are feeling especially generous."

And she was off, skirting the trail around the great mountain and through the forests, pressing onward towards Windhelm. When the city came into view at last in the early evening, she hesitated and tried to reconcile the warring factions within her. She would rather be anywhere else in the world than marching through Ulfric's gate at this moment. But she had a duty to perform.  Tullius had ordered her to do whatever was necessary to gain Whiterun's aid for the Imperial side and she was bound to obey.  There was a part of her that longed to see Ulfric's face again.  She missed him.  She ached for the feel of his body in her arms. But she dreaded seeing him now, too. Ultimately, however, there was nothing for it but to go on. She stabled her horse and approached the gate, pausing as the guards stepped into her path.

"State your business, Imperial," one demanded tersely, his face hidden behind the mask of his helm.  

Her Legion lorica marked her plainly as an enemy and their body posture was hostile.  It would only take a wrong word or a false move to provoke the guards into violence.  Gallica stood straight and did not flinch.  She delivered her message simply and without flourish.

"I come as a diplomatic envoy from the Jarl of Whiterun. I have a message for Jarl Ulfric."

For an instant, no one moved.  The eyes that she could see through the guard's oculars went wide with recognition suddenly.  He removed his helm, blinking at her as if he couldn't believe what he saw. He exchanged a glance with his fellows at the gate, and then put his helmet back on.

"Enter. But be quick about it," he told her, falteringly, almost breathing the words instead of speaking them.

Windhelm was exactly the same as Gallica had left it, except perhaps quieter.  The group of men who hung around the entrance to the Candlehearth in the evenings were nowhere to be seen, although the gloaming light of dusk was settling over the city. Hardly anyone was out on the streets in this cold. The early winter darkness was falling quickly and Gallica did not relish walking unannounced into the Palace of the Kings as she once might have at this hour of the evening.  The few people who were out, gave her a wide berth and hurried away.  No one wanted to be seen with an Imperial soldier in Windhelm.  At last, Gallica rented a room at the inn. The proprietress remembered her, but said nothing.  Patrons glowered at her from the recesses of the inn and so Gallica decided to confine herself to her room.  It was small, but at least it warm and comfortable. Quickly, she stripped out of her armor, scrawled a quick note to Ulfric's steward as the proper protocol would have it, then went downstairs to find a messenger to deliver it.  Then, she waited.

Not an hour had passed before Elda, the aging innkeeper, knocked on her door with reply. Gallica unfolded the sealed parchment carefully to see only two words written there in Ulfric's neat-handed script.

 _Come home_.

With her heart pounding, Gallica thanked the innkeeper and closed the door.  She sat down on the bed and pressed her face into her palms. It would be stupid to go now. When Ulfric saw her, she did not want it to be in the Palace at night where she could be easily arrested with few would be the wiser. She knew that his honor would demand that he respect the right of safe passage granted to diplomatic envoys, but in this case she suspect that the urge to keep her in Windhelm by any means would be too great. The Dragonborn was too large and important a player to him to let her just walk back out of the city now. Everything in Gallica's tactical mind warned against it, even as the softer part of her thrilled to think that he missed her and burned with yearning to see him again. She folded the letter, laid it on the bedside table, and then lay back, closing her eyes. She would not go.  She would wait.  If she knew Ulfric, he would not wait.

The hour was late when she heard another knock at her door. A cloaked figure stood in the threshold of the now silent inn, hood pulled down to cover most of his face.  Gallica did not have to wonder who her visitor was. Stepping back, she allowed the figure into the room and, once the door was closed, found herself looking up into the face of Ulfric Stormcloak.

He stared at her for a long time.  For once in his life, the Jarl of Windhelm seemed unable to find the words to express himself.  At last, he spoke and his voice was thick with emotion and with bitterness.

"When Galmar told me that you had been spotted at Korvanjund," he began, breathing in deeply, "I didn't believe it.  I wouldn't believe it now if I were not seeing it with my own eyes."

Gallica said nothing.  Her lungs seemed paralyzed, unable either to draw breath or expel a reply.  She had tried to think of what she would say to him, but there was nothing she could say that would mend the situation.  There was nothing she could say to Ulfric that would make him understand.  She stared back and waited as the betrayal in Ulfric's eyes turned to anger.

"Why?" he demanded, after a moment. "Why  _t_ _his?_ "

With great effort, Gallica forced herself to step forward towards the man she loved. "Ulfric-"

He stepped back an scowled, his voice growling out at her like a cornered bear.

" _Why?_ " he demanded again.

"Because I can't let this happen," Gallica replied, feeling the dam within her break at last.  She cast around her, spreading her palms as the words she had wanted to say to him since her return to Windhelm spilled out of her mouth.  "Look around you, Ulfric. Skyrim is being torn apart at the seams. People are suffering.  In your own city, people are suffering and you do nothing to stop it.  How can this be right?"

His eyes flashed and his face grew red with fury.

"Skyrim is being torn apart because the Empire refuses to relinquish its hold, not because we want to be free," he snarled at her, disgusted.  "I thought you understood that.  I thought you, of all people, would understand."

"Maybe Skyrim should be free to go its own way. But, Ulfric," Gallica replied, realizing that she was almost pleading with him to listen now, "killing the High King, attacking Jarls who don't agree with you, letting the worst elements in your city grow and thrive -- this is not the way to do it.  You're going to get yourself and a lot of other people killed and then who will be there for Skyrim in the hard times to come?  How can I follow you down that path?"

For a brief instant, Gallica thought that her words might have gotten through.  Ulfric shook his head, scowling as he reached up to rub his brow.  She stepped towards him, but before she could reach out to him, the Jarl glared up at her coldly.

"I loved you," he accused her and cursed. "Talos give me strength.  I trusted you."

Gallica closed her eyes against the ravaging blow of the words.  The past tense of his statements was like salt in the open wound.  She felt tears springing to her eyes and forced herself to breathe deeply to hold them back.

"I still love you," she replied.  This seemed only to set him off again.

"You love me?  So you join an army against me?  So you fight for the people that would have hung both of our heads from their gates only months ago?" Ulfric paced like a sabrecat, but the room was small.  The rage in his voice was laced with hurt so severe that to hear it was like the thrust and twist of a knife.  "You were there at Helgen.  Your damned Legion and that butcher Tullius would have executed you without a second thought."

"There are always mistakes. No army is immune to that, even yours," she replied, trying to make him understand.  "I rejoined the Legion because I know this conflict has to come to an end. This is the only way to end it without critically weakening both Skyrim and the Empire. The Empire is not the real threat here, Ulfric. The Thalmor are."

She shook her head, closing her eyes tight as she buried her face in her hands for a long moment.

"I love you.  Whether you believe me or not, Ulfric, I do.  Would you have me go against my principles and my better judgment just to please you? What kind of person would that make me? How could you respect me - or trust me in the field for that matter - if you knew I fought for something I can't believe in?"

"I would have hoped that you believed in me," he told her, bitterly.

There was a long silence before either of them spoke again.

"It isn't that simple. You know that it isn't that simple," Gallica sighed, her voice finally breaking as the tears came.

Ulfric stepped towards her then and reached out, raking his fingers into her hair on either side of her face.  He pressed his palms to her cheeks in the old gesture of intimacy, leaning his forehead down against hers. His proximity, after so many nights away from him, made her shiver, but Gallica could not stop herself from embracing him.  His breath was warm on her scalp as he spoke.  Pleading with her now.

"Gallica," he said. It was the only time that she could ever remember him using her given name. "Come home."

Her heart broke and the tears were flowing in earnest now.  Gallica leaned back, but Ulfric followed her, earnestly.

"It's not too late. If this is about the elves, we'll find a way to fix it. I'll make sure Rolff is punished fairly. Tullius is using you as a weapon against me. You must know that."

"I don't know who is using who anymore," Gallica confessed, hearing the tremble in her voice as her heart sank. She splayed her fingers across Ulfric's chest, feeling him real and physical there underneath her fingertips.  She shook her head.  "I don't want to lose you. But, heart, I don't see any way you can win this."

" _Together_ we can--"

"And then what?" she asked, frowning, unwilling to listen to the propaganda this time. "Even if the Empire withdraws, the Thalmor are waiting. We _need_ the Empire and the Legion for what will come after.  We can't do it alone."

She expected Ulfric to explode again, but to her surprise, he was silent.  He was listening, thinking about what she had said.  Finally, he sighed in frustration.

"What do you want me to do?"

For once that day, hope blossomed in Gallica's chest.  She looked up into her lover's face, searching his eyes for sincerity.  His expression was raw with emotion, but she could see a lost look behind all of that - the man afraid of losing her, not the Jarl afraid of losing the Dragonborn.  She placed her hands over his and gazed up at him.  She gathered every bit of resolve she had within her, willing Ulfric to really hear here for once in all of this mess.

"Negotiate a peace with Tullius. He's already agreed to spare your life until there can be a trial. The Emperor knows that he needs Skyrim.  He knows that you are a critical influence here.  There may be censure, but it would be in his interest to keep you alive.  If you continue the rebellion, though, Ulfric, his hands will be tied and so will mine.  If you do this - if you make peace - you won't be High King.  But at least you will be alive, Ulfric.  Please."

She was getting through to him.  She saw him swallow, his expression hardening slightly, but he didn't pull away.  The Jarl bowed his head, closing his eyes and drawing deep breaths.

"I'm not afraid of dying," he told her, at last.

"I know," she agreed, squeezing his hands with hers.  She felt his fingers lace into hers, but then she felt his fingers pause over his ring on her hand.  "But it would be unkind of you to make me a widow before I've had a chance to become a wife."

She was winning him over.  As Ulfric pulled back from her, Gallica looked up at him hopefully.  He stared at her, weary and vexed and sad for a long moment, and then he shook his head.  His expression closed before her eyes.  His voice was strained and quiet when he spoke.

"I won't let you do this," he said, softly, more to himself than to her.  His blue eyes flicked to hers, and she could see that his anger was returning.  He straightened. "I don't know how that Imperial bastard talked you into this, but I won't stand by and let him turn you against me."

"Ulfric-" Gallica interjected, alarmed, but the Jarl cut her off curtly.

"Enough."  He turned from her, evading her outstretched hands, and moved towards the door. He paused with his hand on the latch and glared at her.  "Deliver your message at the court tomorrow, Dragonborn. We will do this properly. I don't blame you for this. You weren't born here.  You weren't there in the Great War when the Empire betrayed us.  You don't understand. No, this is on Tullius' head.  And on Balgruuf's. When Whiterun falls, I will see to that you are brought here unharmed.  When you have come to your senses, we will undo the damage you've done together. As it should be."

And then he was gone. Gallica stared at the empty doorway, her heart racing and feeling as if her blood was slowly draining out of her. So, that was how it was going to be. As she closed the door, she leaned her forehead against the rough wood and closed her eyes.

What happened next was going to be hard. Many, many people were going to die because of this. But what else could she do? If Ulfric would not save himself, she would have to do it for him and she knew now that he would fight her tooth and nail every step of the way.

She undressed, finally, and stretched out on the bed after blowing out the candle.  She stared into the empty darkness for a long time before finally drift into a restless haze of sleep. Tomorrow was going to be a long day and she needed every ounce of rest she could get.

~~0~~

The Palace of the Kings was more forbidding now than it had ever seemed previously. As Gallica entered into the great, high-vaulted hall, she saw that Ulfric had been waiting for her. The hall was usually loosely guarded, but there was a full complement of men on hand today.  The Jarls that had been deposed as part of the High Hrothgar Treaty glowered from the sidelines. To Gallica's estimation, Galmar seemed oddly calm as she approached.  He smiled tightly at her as if he had known that this was coming all along and had just been proven right. No doubt, she thought, he was imagining a day soon when Ulfric wouldn't care what happened to her and would allow him to repay her for the insult to his family.  The revenge would be all the more sweet now that she stood before him in the garb of an Imperial soldier.  

But Galmar was not the man she had come to see.  Her attention focused on the Jarl of Windhelm.  She bowed as she approached, forcing her face to remain a mask despite the turmoil in side of her.

"Dragonborn," Ulric began from the high seat as she approached. He must be tired, she thought, but he maintained his regal and unconcerned appearance anyway.  The eyes that fixated on her were imperious and as sharp as blades. "Make it quick. I have a war to plan."

"I bring a message from Jarl Balgruuf of Whiterun," she announced, in a crisp military tone that carried through the room. Ulfric smiled, glancing at his housecarl.

"I was wondering when he would come around," the Jarl commented, though this was pure theater.  He already knew why she was there.  

Gallica unstrapped the ax from her shoulder. There was a momentary intake of breath among the assembled, but she turned the blade away from Ulfric and held it out to him by the haft, harmlessly.  He accepted the weapon, inspecting it, and then nodded.

"I see. You're brave to carry this message into my hall, Dragonborn. But I would expect no less from you."

He turned the axe in his hands for a moment, as if deliberating, and then handed the ax back to her.  He raised his voice slightly so that there would be no ambiguity over what he had said later

"It is a pity that you have chosen the wrong side in this matter. Take this axe back to the man who sent it. And tell him that he should prepare to entertain visitors. I expect there will be a great deal of excitement around Whiterun in the days to come."

Gallica accepted the weapon without breaking eye contact with the Jarl. Ulfric's expression was like stone, but she could see regret in him, too, as if trapped behind his eyes. They both knew what was coming. He did not want her to die, much as she did not want him to die.  And, because she could feel it, too, she could see the fear in him that this was the last time they would see each other alive. But he could no more stop himself now than she could, and so the moment was lost.

"We will expect to see you in Whiterun, Jarl Ulfric," she heard herself say, though the words sounded hollow, as if they came from someone else a mile away.

"Sooner than you think," he replied, dismissively, and her interview was over.

She bowed and turned to go, slinging the axe over her shoulder and feeling Ulfric's gaze burn into her back as she left the Palace for what she could not help feeling was probably the last time.

~~0~~

Gallica did not go to the gates. She knew that Ulfric had only let her leave because he wanted to make a political point to the people around him. She knew him too well by now to think that he would actually let her return to Whiterun if he could prevent it. She was too valuable to the war effort.  Instead, she made a detour through the Grey Quarter, waiting for a group of guards to pass by before slipping down to the docks. It was not long before she spotted a familiar face among the Argonian dockworkers.

"Shahvee," Gallica whispered, moving close, and the Argonian woman stopped and cocking her head slightly.  As recognition hit the lizard-woman's eyes, Shahvee bobbing her head slightly in the way her people normally expressed pleasure.  She moved closer.

"I greet you, honored friend."

"I need a favor. Is there somewhere we can talk?"

The Argonian glanced around and then turned, motioning Gallica to follow. In the privacy of the the communal bunkhouse, Gallica allowed herself relax slightly. A fair few of the Argonians in Windhelm were suspicious of Nords, and rightly so, but Shahvee had helped her more than once and Gallica had done a favor in return by helping the woman recover her holy amulet of Zenithar. If anyone could help her, it would be the reformed thief.

"It's a long story", Gallica explained, but I need to get out of the city without being seen.  Can you help me?"

The Argonian listened and considered, her black eyes twinkling in the dim light of the bunkhouse, and then nodded.

"For the kind Nord, Shahvee can do this. Wait here."

Anxiously, pacing the length of the cramped bunkhouse, Gallica waited. After what seemed like an eternity, the Argonian returned and beckoned to her and led her down the dock toward a light skiff on which another Argonian, a dark green male with white under-scales, waited.

"Sees-in-the-Dark must deliver new blades to Mixwater Mill up river. Perhaps Sees-in-the-Dark will deliver other cargo as well."

Gallica looked to the male, who nodded, wordlessly, and she felt relief spread over her. From her belt pouch, she removed a ruby ring that she had picked up from a bandit's cave weeks ago and had not yet managed to sell. She pressed it into the woman's hand, knowing it would be more than the Argonian would earn on the docks in a month.

"Thank you, friend. I will not forget this."

The Argonian woman smiled in the curious way of her species and Gallica boarded the skiff. Sees-in-the-Dark pointed her towards a place where she could sit among the already loaded crates, obscured from all but the most careful observers. Within moments, the dockworker had poled the skiff out into the icy river, and they were on their way.

~~0~~

It was midafternoon before she reached Whiterun, cutting across country to avoid assault on the road after she left the Argonian at the mill. As she approached the city, she saw that it was already swarming with activity. Barricades were being constructed, the fortifications were manned. Balgruuf was no fool. He knew Ulfric as well or even better than she did, and he had sent for the Legion already.

She found him in the planning room of Dragonsreach, situated between the Great Hall and the porch where she had captured Odhaviing what seemed like an eternity ago now.  His steward and Irileth were taking counsel with him along with a covey of Imperial officers. Exhausted, Gallica approached, with a perfunctory bow, and held the axe back out to Balgruuf.

"I knew that would be his response," the Jarl admitted, shaking his head. "I sent word to General Tullius after you left.  Legate Cipius here has come to assist us."

Gallaca glanced at the stoic-looking Legate who had been poised over the maps, who nodded at her in return, and back to Balgruuf.

"Let Ulfric try to make it past the combined forces of the Legion and Whiterun," he said, chuckling. "Thank you, friend. I'll turn you back over to the Legion. I believe Legate Cipius requires your attention."

She bowed and turned crossing the distance between the Jarl and the Legate.

"At ease," The officer said before she could salute.  She had not met him before, but he seemed to know her.  The handsome Imperial smiled at her. "I hear good things about you, Auxiliary. Make your report."

"Ulfric rejected Whiterun's offer of peace. He will be mobilizing his troops soon," she replied, and the Legate sniffed, disdainfully.

"Hardly surprising. But we're more than a match for anything the Stormcloaks can throw at us," Cipius replied. "There's an army of them massing to the north, maybe two thousand men. By all accounts, they'll be on our doorstep tomorrow, if not sooner. Go rest and eat while you can, Auxiliary. Report back in at dawn, we'll talk defense then. I want you in the forward line and at your best tomorrow when those dogs get here."

"Yes, sir."

"Oh, and there was a package brought from Solitude for you as well. I sent it with your housecarl for safekeeping."

Gallica nodded, saluting as she turned on her heel and threaded her way through back down from the great hall into the city streets. Whiterun was lit up like a beacon, archers manning every position along the walls, soldiers on every street corner.  The townsfolk were carrying provisions home to secure their houses against the impending invasion. Quite a few of these men and women, she knew, would not be coming back home to their families tomorrow if the Stormcloaks attacked, and the thought pained her as it always did. As she passed by the foot soldiers, she tried not to think of how young most of them looked or to see her brother's face in theirs.

"Thane," Lydia said, bounding down the stairs as she heard Gallica enter. "I'm glad to see you returned safely."

"The Divines smiled on me. But it seems their favor is capricious these days."

"The Stormcloaks," Lydia said, obviously, and Gallica nodded.

"I'm going to sleep for a few hours and head back to Dragonsreach to help plan the defense. You should get some sleep yourself. I want you on the wall tops tomorrow helping."

"I won't be in the battle with you?" the housecarl sounded disappointed.

"You'll be in the battle, but as a supplement to the city guard. If the Legion fails in the forward guard, I want you in here with the second line holding the gates.  This is your city.  Stay and protect it and let the Legion see to the Stormcloaks outside."

"Understood," Lydia replied, drawing herself upright."I won't let you down."

"I know," Gallica said, smiling grimly, and headed upstairs. Lying on her bed were two bulky objects covered in sacking. Frowning, she undid the rope that bound the first one and reached inside. As her hand touched the smoothed, pitted surface of the first object she encountered, she knew instantly what Tullius had sent her. As she withdrew the fearsome dragonbone helm, a piece of parchment slid out with it. She recognized the handwriting at once.

_Thought you would want these. I believe that it's about time to remind these Stormcloaks why the Legion's standard is a dragon, don't you agree? ~T_

She set the note aside and pulled the rest of her armor out of the sacking, laying it out on the chair and table nearby. The note struck opposing chords with her, especially in light of her conversation with Ulfric the night before.  Tullius was right, though. She could do more good as the Dragonborn now than she could as a simple legionnaire.

Exhausted, she unstrapped her armor, laid it aside, and slept without undressing. She needed to be ready at a moment's notice, and there were few enough hours between now and dawn to worry about it. Ulfric would not waste time. He had already been planning for this for weeks. No doubt all his troops needed was the order.

She did not dream of Ulfric and Whiterun, but of another city miles to the south and another siege, though it had happened before she was born. She stood on a rise overlooking a roiling battlefield, the walls of the Imperial City burning in the distance. The man standing next to her was speaking to her, but she could not hear him over the din of battle. At first, from his general's armor and salt-and-pepper hair, she thought it was Tullius,but as she looked closer, trying to understand what he was saying, she recognized the man in a flash of insight. She had never seen him in life, but the eyes were her mother's eyes and she could see a mix of her brother's features and her own mapped out there in his face.

"The gates are the key in a siege," General Caius Gallicus told her. "Make the gates work for you. Don't be trapped by them.  Make them a trap for your enemies."

Before Gallica could respond, though, a low distant sound - so loud that she felt the reverberations of the base notes in her blood - echoed across the field and she woke in a cold sweat. The horns were sounding outside and she could hear the clatter of hobnail boots on cobblestones. Jumping up, Gallica called for Lydia. With the housecarl's help, she donned her dragon armor and hurried outside, pelting through the streets in the early morning cold and darkness towards Dragonsreach, dodging guardsmen and soldiers who were rushing to their posts.

War had come to Whiterun. It was only a matter of time now.


	11. The Battle of Whiterun

The war-room of Dragonsreach was crawling with activity as Gallica entered.  A dozen different voices were talking at once. Balgruuf and Cipius were bent over the maps, placing figurines to represent the opposing forces while minor officers crowded around, watching or standing in serious huddles nearby.  The Imperial Legate glanced up as Gallica approached and grunted brusquely.  He motioned her over to the table.

"There you are.  I was about to send a runner for you."

"Reporting in, sir. What is the situation?" she asked, pushing through until she stood next to him at the table.

Troop markers were scattered in a wide arc around the northern and eastern fields, cutting off the main roads. Silently, Gallica thanked the Divines that she had decided to cut over the ridge the day before and approach Whiterun from the southeast. If she had followed the highway from Windhelm, she would have run straight into the Stormcloak vanguard.

"They crossed over from The Pale under cover of darkness," Cipius explained without taking his eyes from the map.  "They've split their force into two groups. The smaller here in the north, the large force moving into position in the east.  They'll take cover in the trees until they're ready to close in."

"Seige weapons in the north, then?" Gallica asked and the Legate nodded.  Dawnstar had the clearer path to Whiterun.  Jarl Skald would, no doubt, have sent every aid he could to Ulfric's cause.

"Bastards have been planning this for a while," Cipius mused, thinking out loud.  "No way they could have moved those catapults down from Dawnstar this quickly.  They've had them waiting out there close by somewhere. If we'd had a regular garrison here, we could have routed them out before this, but as it is we're going to have to do the best we can with what we have and make sure the city guard is prepared to fight fires."

Gallica frowned.  She snuck a glance at Balgruuf, whose expression hardened to cover his wounded pride. No doubt this was hard medicine for him to swallow, and she sympathized. She would have rather stayed out of it herself, but when empires and legends collide, it becomes impossible not to be swept up in the destruction.

"The city guard are already pulling water from the cisterns to deal with any fires inside the walls," the Jarl informed the Imperial Legate. "My men can handle what happens in here. I'm more worried about that eastern front and the gates."

"Sir." A young soldier pressed through the crowd in the room, wide-eyed, his face red from exertion. He started to speak but instead doubled over, panting heavily.

"Take a minute to breathe, son," the Legate murmured, dismissively.

"But…sir…" the soldier continued.  His entreaty was lost in the further discussion of the defense.

"The outer fortifications are strong. There has never been a successful assault on them. If we can hold them at the gates --" Balgruuf suggested.

"Catapults." Cipius reminded him, and the Jarl scowled. "The scouts report that they've set up braziers. They don't want to take down the walls, they want to burn us out. That means they'll have their strongest force at the gates to head off any sorties to clear a path for the remainder of the army."

"My men are fearless," The Jarl replied, bristling, trying to save face. "It's the Imperial milk-drinkers I'm worried about."

The Legate raised his eyes from the map only long enough to give the Jarl of Whiterun a pointed glare.

"I can order my milk-drinkers to stand down and let your fearless guardsmen defend the city on their own," Cipius replied cooly.  "If you prefer."

"No, of course not," Balgruuf back-pedaled, frustrated. "There is a lot riding on this, Cipius. Do not let me down."

Cipius grunted his assent.  His finger tips tapped on the map as he pondered.

"I've already dispatched men to help make sure the civilians are moved under cover and I've added supplementary troops to your fire-teams. Your city is as safe as it can be under the circumstances, Jarl Balgruuf.  The Legion has come to defend Whiterun.  We honor our contracts."

"You legionnaires are efficient, I'll give you that," the Jarl admitted, generously.

"Sir!"

The messenger seemed to have recovered his breath and both the Jarl and the Legate whirled on him angrily.

"What?" the Legate demanded, glowering at the younger man with an expression that Gallica knew from experience would have made any fresh recruit give anything to sink down into the floorboards right then and there.

The soldier paled, but he saluted and delivered his news.

"Sir, they're on the move. They'll be at the gates any moment now."

"Damn it, boy, why didn't you say something?" Cipius snarled, rounding on him.

"Sir, I tried…"

The messenger was drowned out by the roar of the Legion commander.

"Move out! To your positions!" the Legate rapped out urgently.  The war room became a clamor of men and women hurrying towards all available exits. He turned to Gallica. "You. Report to Legate Rikke at the front. I want you out there front and center where they can see you. Do you hear me?"

"Yes, sir!" Gallica turned immediately hurried through the morass towards the lower hall.

"Oblivion take every last one of them," she heard Balgruuf mutter, bitterly, as she passed.

~~0~~

A murky pre-dawn mist cloaked the city.  The bloody sunrise had not yet cast its first wave of light over the eastern hills and the forests and snowy plains of Whiterun Hold were still dark. From the doorstep of Dragonsreach, Gallica could see what looked like a field of stars shining through the fog from the eastern farmlands. The torches of a hundreds of Stormcloaks poised to descend upon the city and tear it to pieces if they could. In the distance she could hear the frantic throbbing heartbeat of war drums in the fog and the shrill call of the ram's horns sounding the alarm from the city walls. As she watched, a flaming mass arched across the sky from the northern foothills like a meteor, landing somewhere in the Wind district.  It exploded in a rain of fire and splintered wood, beginning the first of what would be many desperate fights to control the flames. Figures hurried through the dim-light and smoke below in a chaotic morass.

 _The gates_ , a voice reminded her in the back of her mind, galvanizing her into action.

The world around Gallica was all rushing feet and the sound of explosions.  Terrified faces intermixed with flashes of horrific light as she pressed her way down through the Wind district and onto the main road. Soldiers rushed alongside of her, civilians fought their way back through them towards safer ground. There was another flash of light overhead and a ground-shaking boom from elsewhere in the city, accompanied by the cacophony of collapsing stonework and screams of pain and panic.

She hurried through the flood of soldiers, out of the gates, and wove through the sharp turns of the fortifications until she stood at the outer gate of the city.  The legion's front line had gathered behind the wooden barricades erected against the coming onslaught and Gallica found herself staring out into the open vegetable fields and the fog shrouded hills beyond. No Stormcloaks were in evidence yet, but she could feel them out there, coming closer and closer. As the legionnaires packed in around her, jostling restlessly, the smell of fear-sweat and blood rose from them like a thick musk.  Gallica glanced left and right, noting the faces of the men that surrounded her.  They nodded back, grimly.  They all knew the seriousness of their situation.  They all knew that the faces around them might be the last they would ever see.  

Rikke was standing on the parapet over the gate, her armor shining in the light from the torches. The sounds of explosions echoed behind them, and a flaming missile exploded yards from the gate, sending burning debris spraying down the path. After what seemed an eternal pause, Gallica saw Rikke raise her sword - a signal to someone on the walls - and a low rumble erupted behind them accompanied by another boom. The gates had been sealed and the drawbridge retracting behind them. The forward centuries were on their own now, either for death or glory.

Minutes passed.  The canyon of Whiterun's outer fortifications rose up on either side of Gallica, funneling the noise of the drums and the horns and nearly blotting out the murmurs of her fellow soldiers.  She knew what they were saying, though.  Muttered prayers.  Curses.  Reassurances passing from older soldier to younger, from friend to friend.  Finally they heard it.  A new sound that rose out of and above the drum beats.  A deep, rhythmic pounding and a steady rumble for counterpoint, beating against the walls of Whiterun from out of the grey mist like a deadly tide.

"Thunder?" a recruit asked somewhere behind her.

"No," answered the older, heavily-armored triarius next to Gallica.  

She glanced at the man, noting his thick metal plates and the creaking of his leather harness in the cold morning.  He tightened his grip on sword and shield, as his expression tightened, too. 

"Not thunder."

And out of the fog, the Stormcloaks emerged.  Their shieldwall darkened the fields beyond the road as they moved towards the city. The guttural chant of deep voices rose like a wave of menace above the sharp echoing staccato of their swords slapping against the plane of wooden roundel shields.  Every heartbeat brought them closer.  The steam of their breaths in the cold melded into the mist as if they were an army of wraiths.

A momentary spike of fear shot through Gallica, but behind that the certainty that Whiterun would win.  They would win, because now there was no other option available to them. In some primitive, vestigial part of her, she remembered the spirits of her father and her brother that she had witness up in Sovngarde and she knew that, if she died there beneath the wall of Stormcloak blades, it would only be to wake in the arms of her kin.  Gallica allowed the thought to comfort her as the other soldiers packed tighter together around her.

"Akatosh, Stendarr, Kynareth, preserve us," she heard the legionnaire at her right murmur.  Further back, she heard a whispered, "Talos preserve us, also."

The Stormcloak horde had stopped at the base of the road that lead up the barricades.  A silence, punctuated only by the distant sounds of the catapults and roars from the wall tops, descended upon the field.

"This is it, men!" Rikke called out from the rampart. Her voice was already hoarse from shouting, but there was no mistaking the intent of her words.  The Nord Legate scanned her soldiers as she conjured the words that would send them into battle.  "This is an important day for the Empire and for the Legion- for all of Skyrim! This is the day we send a message to Ulfric Stormcloak and the rebels who support him!"

She descended the stairs. Her eyes found Gallica and she nodded briefly before turning back to look out over the rest of the assembled army.

"But what we do today, we do for Skyrim and her people. By cutting out this cancer, we make our country whole again. Are you with me?"

A roar went up from the legionnaires, Gallica's shout disappearing into the deafening voices that joined with hers.

Rikke's sword was drawn.  She stalked to the head of the Legion's front line and raised her blade high.

"On me, then," the Legate bellowed. "For the Legion! For the Empire!"

And with that Rikke turned and plunged forward through the barricade towards the waiting shieldwall.  Gallica and the rest of the forward line spilled out of the gates in her wake with a warcry that reverberated off of the city's stone walls.

The noise of armies crashing into each other as a red dawn broke the horizon over Whiterun was like the crack of doom. Shield upon shield, blade upon blade, the press and crush of armored bodies colliding along with the sound of thousands of voices echoed across the craggy mountains. Gallica's blood was raging through her veins.  She fought with every ounce of her being, giving no thought to what had come before or what would come after.  Her body knew what to do.  Her Shout broke through the Stormcloak shieldwall and sent more than one of the rebels running, their courage failing in the terrible face of a _dov_ in human form. The Stormcloaks knew who she was.  They knew precisely who they were facing.  And, she could see in every face that swirled before her, they were afraid.

Every blow that rained down on her shield and body, Gallica returned three fold. But no matter how fiercely they fought, the legionnaires were outnumbered four to one.  Men fell and writhed in the churned up mud around her.  At last, Gallica heard the order shouted out above the fray.

"Fall back to the barricades!  Fall back!"

Locking her shield with the armored hulks of the triarii on either side of her, she backed towards the entrance to the walls, providing cover for the light infantry as they retreated. The Stormcloak force that surged up the path after them was greatly reduced, but still overwhelming.  Stragglers that had had to fight their way around the stables or who had been wounded were cut down under the advancing horde. Gallica formed up with the others, creating a wall of the most heavily armored soldiers between the pillars of the outer gate.  She threw her weight against her shield as the tide hit, bracing the wooden barricades and providing needed cover for the archers and the spearmen that stabbed at the attackers as best they could from behind the heavy shieldwall.  Rikke was beside her, throwing her weight behind the line just as any other soldier would.

"These barricades aren't going to hold forever!" Gallica shouted at the Legate above the din as she struggled against the increasingly enraged enemy on the other side of the barricades.

"We have to make them last!" Rikke replied, drawing upright briefly to dispatch an axeman who was bearing down on her. "If that drawbridge falls, they'll have us pinned down in the city!"

 _Make the gates a trap for your enemies, don't be trapped by them,_ Gallica thought, as she slammed her shield into the face of several advancing Stormcloaks.  One hurled himself towards her and she wrenched her sword back, delivering a fatal slash through the fool's light chainmail.  The enemy's entrails spilled into the dirt as the infantryman next to her drove a spear through the man's chest.

"Let them in!" Gallica shouted.

"What?!" Rikke bellowed, incredulously.

"Get the archers back up on high ground.  That ledge there. Put the triarii on the stairs to guard them. They can't get through that drawbridge and moat unless they can get to the mechanism.  They'll be packed in down here and trapped in the fortified maze.  We can cut them down like cattle in a slaughter pen as they come through."

For a split second, she thought the Legate was going yell at her for suggesting such a stupid plan.  But then realization hit the older soldier's face as her quick mind took in the plan. Rikke fell back quickly and another triarius moved forward into her position, driving his heavy sword down on an advancing Stormcloak with a furious roar. Moments later, she heard a new order passed forward.

"Fall back! Fall back to the stairs!"

As the legionnaires retreated from the barricades, Gallica heard the splintering of wood and saw the wave of grey-blue tunics and chainmail spill into the breach, roaring victory. She backed her way to the stairwell as the Stormcloaks flooded into the narrow gap between the outer gate and the draw bridge.  The walls rose up high around them as they came up against the deep moat and were unable to move forward.

"Release!" she heard Rikke shout out from somewhere above and behind her.

The first deadly volley of arrows cut through the rebel flank, felling them like wheat. The archers from the city walls seemed to catch on to what was happening immediately and a second rain of death descended upon the confused Stormcloak army seconds later.  The tide had turned.  The Stormcloak front line was trapped between the maze of walls, unable to move forward and unable to retreat back the way they came.

Gallica scorched the attackers with dragonfire.  her Thu'um shook the very foundation stones of the walls as her breath burned away those unlucky enough to fall within her path.  The path between the walls had become a slaughterhouse, the blood soaking the dirt and churning it to mud.  The rebels could not fight their way up to lower the drawbridge, nor could they reach the archers.  Every second saw another dozen men fall and the knowledge of their deadly predicament seemed to have dawned upon the Stormcloak footsoldiers.  All order among the invading force disintegrated.  The enemy soldiers stumbled and slipped among the broken bodies of their comrades that were piling up in the narrow space, trying desperately to reach the outer gates and escape.

"They're retreating!" a voice shouted from the walltops at last.  

The news was quickly drowned out by a reciprocating roar of victory from the legionnaires as what remained of the rebel force broke through the gate and fled into fields.  The Legion followed hard on their heels, bolstered by the secondary forces that were now streaming out of the city and howling like Hircine's own hunting hounds as they chased down the survivors and spread out to break the back of the Stormcloak army.

~~0~~

The Stormcloaks that had been left to guard the catapults had fled by the time Gallica's unit arrived to deal with them. They burned the siege weapons with the fire that the rebels had intended for Whiterun.  The blazes grew so large and hot that Gallica was certain that the column of smoke would be seen all across the Nine Holds. As they returned to the city, she took stock of what remained.  The walls were damaged but still standing.  Fires were still burning, but a whole-scale conflagration had been avoided.  Rikke was at the gates, supervising the recovery effort for the injured and seeing to it that the dying Stormcloaks who were beyond help met an end to their suffering at once.

Gallica, streaked with blood and grime and ashes, approached her superior officer and the Legate nodded to her, wearily.  Rikke, too, was covered with blood.  There was a nasty gash on her face that wept down her neck like war-paint, but it would heal.  They had both come through in one piece.

"That was a stroke of genius, soldier," the Legate told her.  The woman's smile was genuine, but tense, faded. Not even a long-time veteran like Rikke could go unaffected by the scene of destruction and carnage that surrounded them. "You can be sure the General will hear about it in my report."

Gallica nodded, wordlessly.  What else was there to say?  They had won.  And Whiterun was still standing.  That was enough for now.  The rest she could process later after a long sleep and a stiff drink.

"Balgruuf is about to make his victory speech. You'll be wanted there, I'm sure. Come," Rikke told her and Gallica followed mechanically.  She felt that if she was forced to walk another twenty feet, she would collapse exhausted into the mud herself.  But duty was duty, and she mustered her strength.

She followed the Legate across the drawbridge to the wooden scaffolding where a combination of the city guard and the surviving legionnaires were gathered. The losses on the Legion side appeared to have been extraordinarily light, but Gallica could see, here and there, the all-too-familiar expressions - frozen and raw - on the faces of men and women who had lost friends in the battle. Through the archway beyond the drawbridge, she watched a single, stunned legionnaire kneeling as still as a statue in the dirt.  The man clutching a dead Stormcloak in his arms. A brother, maybe.  Or a friend from the other side.  Gallica could not be sure, but the thought of that awful realization - of realizing that it might have been your own blade that killed someone close to you - made her ache inside all the same. More so, because she feared that one day very soon, she would be the one kneeling where that soldier was now.

Gallica barely listened to Balgruuf's speech and the voice she added to the resounding war cry at the end was strained.

"Auxiliary," Rikke called, catching her attention and she turned to shuffle towards the city gates to find out if her house was still in one piece.

The Legate looked exhausted, but there was concern written on her face, too. She searched Gallica's eyes for a moment, as if trying to determine if everything was alright, and then nodded.

"You did well. I admit I had my doubts about you, considering, but I can see they were unwarranted. Once Cipius gets Whiterun's defense under control, we will return to Solitude. Until then, you're with me. There's a lot to sort out between the Legion and Balgruuf - and between the Battle-Borns and the Grey-Manes - before we can leave the city in good hands. It'll ease the process if you're there."

"By your orders," Gallica replied, reflexively.  The older legionnaire flashed a tight smile.

"We'll talk more later. Go tend to your property and your people.  Throw in where you can."

Dismissed, Gallica trudged through the now open gates into the city, feeling numb. This was not her first battle and, thank the Nine, it would not be her last. A few days and the skin-crawling horror of battle would scrub off along with the blood and the filth. She had done everything that she could to prevent the fight and when that had failed, she had done what she had to do. Now, like every other soldier leaving the field today, she would take care of what was hers.  She would help bury the dead.  And then, finally, she would drink herself into a stupor to forget so that she could do it again next time.

Which, Gallica thought as she walked through the charred streets of Whiterun, would come far too soon for her liking now that first blood had been spilled.


	12. Politics and the Past

Piece by piece, order was restored to Whiterun.

Parts of the Wind and Plains districts would need to be rebuilt, but the fire brigades had done their jobs well enough to prevent a massive conflagration. Few civilians had lost their lives, but the Temple of Kynareth brimmed with the injured and the homeless. There was hardly a family in the city that had not been touched by the ravages of battle.

Gallica was relieved to find Breezehome Cottage in one piece and, aside from some minor burns and abrasions, so was Lydia. Gallica knew that she, too, had been fortunate.  Dark, deep bruises spread across her body as if she were a painted horse.  They would heal with time. The scars that were left after the healing potions had taken their effect would silver and fade eventually. Already, the memory of the battle was starting to scab over in her mind, as it always did.  The reality of war was too horrific to hang on to and remain sane.  She was secretly glad to be spared the task of burying the dead. The ravens would circle the city for days before all of the corpses were honored and burned.

Instead, Gallica became Rikke's shadow as they tried to navigate the tricky Whiterun political climate. Jarl Balgruuf needed to maintain the illusion of control and the Legates provided him with that by graciously accepting his "invitation" to remain the in the city.  Balgruuf was more than aware of what he had given up and Gallica was pleased to see that Rikke allowed the Jarl to keep his dignity in tact.  

The Battle-Born and Grey-Mane families were more difficult to persuade.  The Battle-Borns were enthusiastic Imperial supporters, but the present generations of the family were burghers now rather than the illustrious warriors of the past.  They saw the recent developments as an opportunity for social climbing, and so they stuck to the officers of the Imperial garrison like limpets.  The Grey-Manes, on the other hand, were traditionalists and less than pleased with Balgruuf's decision to allow the Legion into the city.  The younger generations of the family were likely to cause trouble if not carefully dissuaded.  The older generation of Grey-Manes were not quite Ulfric's people yet, but a wrong move could easily push them there.  

Gallica stood by while Rikke met with the elders of each family, soothing where it was needed and growling when it was necessary, assuring them that no retribution would be exacted or tolerated so long as both maintained good faith with the Empire and the Legion. Gallica's opinion was seldom required in these parlays, but she was aware of being watched.  During her time in Whiterun, she had tried to form friendly relationships with both feuding clans because there was always the chance that she might need their support one day.  She had saved one of the younger Grey-Manes from torture at the hands of the Thalmor inquisitors, and it was that perhaps that made the stoic traditionalists listen now as Rikke spoke to them.  They studied Gallica carefully during the talks, judging whether she seemed to agree with her commander or not, and Gallica did nothing to dissuade them. Grudges ran deep and this was a bitter pill for the Grey-Mane family, but no one wanted to be publicly seen as being at odds with the Dragonborn.

"Politics," snorted Rikke, shaking her head one cold evening as they wound their way through the streets of the Cloud district towards the main square. "These people natter like a bunch of old women at a spinning circle. Give me a sword and someone to put it through, not this backbiting nonsense."

"Agreed. You're adept at it, though," Gallica observed, her lips tipping up in amusement at her superior's irritation.

The level of formality between them had lessened somewhat over the last few days as they worked together, and Gallica found that she rather liked the Legate. Rikke was astute in her judgment, earnest in her principles, and wise enough to know when to keep them to herself; all traits that Gallica admired in others and tried to practice herself with varying levels of success.  It was good to work side by side with a competent officer again.  These were the good parts of soldiering - the sense of accomplishment and watching a plan falling into place.  The work was difficult and often frustrating, but Gallica was not in it alone anymore and that was enough to make the hard days seem easier.

"Too much practice," Rikke replied with a huff.

They reached the Gildergreen's plaza, the ancient tree standing serene and miraculously unaffected by the destruction in the middle of the city.  The Legate looked up the many stone steps that lead to the great hall of Dragonsreach and sighed.

"At least, at this rate, we'll be on our way back to Solitude soon.  Can't come soon enough. If Balgruuf's weasel of a steward corners me again at dinner tonight, I may have to to do something unprofessional."

"Come eat with me, then." Gallica offered. "It's just myself and my housecarl and there's always more than enough for the two of us."

Rikke glanced back at her as if to judge whether she was serious or not, and then shrugged assent.

"Alright. Can't say I'm not eager to get away from the high and mighty folk for a while."

Gallica grinned at that, pleased not to be counted among the high and mighty, and led the way back to Breezehome.  Lydia was already lighting the lanterns and stoking up the hearthfire when she arrived.

"My home is yours," Gallica told Rikke with the polite responsibility of a householder greeting a guest.  Skyrim was a rough place, but manners were essential.  Guestright was respected here, and she could see that the stern Legate appreciated the gesture.

The sudden glut of troops had put a strain on Whiterun's resources, but Lydia was a competent steward in Gallica's absence and there was more than enough preserved food on hand in the small cottage to last. Rikke, seeming uncomfortable with sitting while the other two women worked, pitched in and it was not long before a simple meal of bread, boiled cabbage, and fish was prepared. The Legate seemed to relax considerably over the warmth of a shared meal and hearth, and she and Gallica traded anecdotes about their respective early days in the Legion over dinner.

"They're still doing that?" Rikke laughed, as Gallica finished a story about a recruit that she had known who, as punishment, had been ordered to carry water to a leaky barracks cistern all day until it was full. The commander had purposefully waited until well into the night to return to inspect the recruit's work, long after the recruit had given up in exhaustion and fallen asleep against the side of the cistern, "I remember our commander pulling that stunt on Galmar Stone-fist once. But the joke was on him. Galmar was still at it when the sun came up. He always was too proud to let anyone have a laugh at his expense."

"You knew Galmar?" Gallica asked, surprised.

"Aye. Ulfric, too, from when we were all young," Rikke replied, sipping her mead, her smile falling slightly as she remembered. "We all joined the Legion at the same time and fought in the same cohort during the Great War. Some of the best and worst memories I have come from that time."

"I've heard many people say the same," Gallica acknowledged soberly, nodding.  She understood all too well what Rikke was saying.  Wartime brought people together against a common enemy.  Patriotism lifted the soul.  It had to, in order to keep the soldiers marching through living hell day in and day out.

She debated about whether to continue the line of questioning. Over the years, Gallica had met enough veterans of the War to know how the memories haunted them, but there were things she wanted to know from Rikke now, too.  Things that perhaps no one else could tell her.  

Hesitantly, Gallica continued.  "With Ulfric and Galmar - how did it come down to this? If they were loyal to the Legion once, what happened?"

Rikke paused over her mead, turning the thick bottle in her hand.  There was a pained smile on her face, as if she were remembering something both dear to her and painful at the same time.

"Well, you have to understand how it seemed at the time. When the Emperor called, the legions of Skyrim came. Entire armies lost their lives retaking the Imperial City while Skyrim was left unguarded. When the dust cleared, we had won - but almost an entire generation of Nord warrior were dead and the worship of Talos, beloved here in Skyrim, was banned for our trouble. They took our kinsmen and our god, and when we came home, at last, it was to a very different place," Rikke said, and shook her head. "Galmar hates the Empire because he thinks they betrayed the memory of the brothers and friends that he lost in the War. Ulfric was a prisoner of war for most of that last year. The Thalmor tortured him, both body and mind.  He was never the same after that. I don't blame either of them for how they feel, but this rebellion is foolishness. It's going to get them both killed and they'll take a lot of our kinsmen with them, just like the Emperor's war."

"I know," Gallica agreed, her thoughts turning inward, to the last time she had spoken to Ulfric.

 _Y_ _ou weren't there when they betrayed us, you don't understand_.

She could remember the tortured expression on his face, the utter hatred in his voice, and it made her shudder to think of what he must see in his mind when he thought back to the War. Rikke eyed her carefully for a moment and then poured herself more mead, refilling Gallica's cup at the same time.

"Your stint in Windhelm. That wasn't about ideology. Was it?"

"No," Gallica admitted, drinking and tracing the lip of her cup self-consciously before adding, "Though Ulfric can be persuasive when he puts his mind to it."

"I remember," Rikke said, smiling grimly, and then laughed at Gallica's frozen expression. "No, not like that. Ulfric was one of my closest friends in those days, but he was a Jarl's son - above a girl from a householder family - and he was just as insufferable then as he is now. Besides, he knew my attentions were elsewhere; he wouldn't have undermined a friend."

For an instant, the implication did not connect in Gallica's mind and then she gaped at Rikke, stunned.

"Galmar?"

The older soldier grinned and chuckled, shrugging.

"He wasn't always such a surly old bear. There was a time when he was actually quite easy to be around. The world was a simpler place through his eyes.  And I was simpler, then, too."

The wistfulness in Rikke's voice was apparent and Gallica felt herself automatically look away. Whether she did so to spare the other woman her privacy or to hide the echo she felt inside herself, she wasn't certain.

"I'm sorry."

"Nothing to be sorry about.  It's last year's snow. He went one way, I went another," Rikke replied, shrugging it off. She glanced up and raised an eyebrow at Gallica.  "But if you want my advice, as someone who's been there: never let anyone use your feelings for them to talk you out of what you know is right. Men come and go. Honor is forever. Whatever happened with you and Ulfric, don't let him drag you down with him."

The fire was starting to burn to embers in the hearth with the lateness of the hour, and it cast ghostly shadows in the rafters of the house and on the women's faces.  Rikke rose, stretching her still stiff muscles.

"I should get back. There's a lot of ground to cover with Cipius before we'll be ready to leave. Take tomorrow to get your affairs in order, Auxiliary. I'd plan to bring anything you think you might have need of in the coming months. I have a feeling it's going to be a long campaign before either of us see home again."

~~0~~

A steady, nearly frozen rain pelted down from a dreary sky as the column of soldiers arrived back at Solitude.  The city was a welcome sight for all. Though a cohort had been assembled to assure safe passage through the Reach, now held by the Stormcloaks, the bulk of Rikke's men had been left with Cipius to help secure Whiterun against opportunistic attacks and to await further orders. The Legates seemed to think that the Pale would their next target, and so it made the most strategic sense to leave the legion in place until orders were received. Dawnstar would be scrambling for reinforcements after the devastating losses at Whiterun and the less time wasted the better.

Once the formalities had been observed, Rikke dismissed the men and told Gallica to come with her to deliver the report. The deep chill of winter had finally set in and the keep was cold and damp.  Gallica could see that, in their absence, additional layers of tapestries had been rolled down over the walls and braziers were lit to ward off the chill of the fortified castle. A  fire had been stoked up in the war-room, and Tullius was leaning against the hearth, shuffling through the pages of some missive or other while a group of officers were musing over the map in the center of the room.

As he looked up, Gallica was curiously aware of the general's gaze moving past Rikke and fixing on her.  Relief flooding into his face for an instant, before his eyes quickly snapped back to the Legate. The depth of the expression startled her for an instant, but she shook it off. Of course he would be relieved to see them returned unharmed from Whiterun. Rikke was his second in command and Gallica was a valuable asset to the cause. She had been on the road too long today. Weariness and discomfort were tricking her mind into seeing things that weren't there.

Gallica tried to listen as Rikke delivered the report, but her focus kept drifting. She had heard the battle rehashed a dozen times since the victory by now, and it was not something she wanted to dwell on. It was one thing to study and scrutinize battles long past, and another entirely to remember one you had actually recently shed blood in. Her dreams were bloody enough already without ruminating on it during her waking hours. The sound of her own name, however, brought her back to attention.

"The losses would have been much steeper without Auxiliary Gallica's tactical assistance." Rikke said, nodding back at her. "A lot of our men owe their lives to her quick thinking."

"It certainly sounds that way," Tullius replied, gravely. He turned to Gallica, "In light of your outstanding service at Whiterun, I am promoting you to Quaestor. Congratulations."

"Thank you, sir."

"Well done, both of you," he continued, gruffly. "But let's not rest on our laurels. I expect Ulfric is already planning retaliation for this embarrassment. Legate, take a day for you and your men to recuperate, you've earned it. Then, join Tituleius' force at the Pale. Jarl Skald is overdue for a lesson in humility."

"By your orders," Rikke replied crisply.

"Quaestor, I'm retaining you in Solitude for a few extra days. Stow your equipment, clean up, and meet me back here."

"Yes, sir." Gallica replied, saluting.

Turning on her heel, she strode out of the room and broke into a jog back towards the barracks. She had no idea why Tullius would hold her back from the rest of the legion, though she worried it had something to do with Ulfric.  She would find out soon enough, though, and there was nothing she wanted more at that instant than to be out of the sodden armor and clothes that she had been riding in for the last four hours. Once she was warm again, she would be able to think about it more clearly. And she trusted the general. She knew he would not keep her from the field if there was not a good reason for it.

~~0~~

"Walk with me," Tullius told her, rising immediately when Gallica returned.

Glancing at the other officers who were still clustered around the map table, she guessed that whatever he was about to say was for her only. She fell in behind him as he climbed the stairs up to the second floor and walked up to a chamber at the end of the hall. A bedchamber, she noted with some unease.  While it was spotlessly clean and rather austere, a picture of military order, the room definitely belonged to a man and, Gallica realized somewhat awkwardly, most likely to Tullius himself.  There was a vaguely uncomfortable note in the General's demeanor as he faced her.  It was improper, though not seriously so, for her to be alone with a superior in his private quarters and Tullius would be acutely aware of that as well.

"There's a skirmish brewing in Riften. I didn't want to break up the planning session, and it's colder than Oblivion outside," he offered by way of explanation.  He fold his arms.  "There are few things that I wanted to talk to you about and, as they say, the walls here have ears.  What we discuss here remains between you and me."

"Yes, sir," Gallica replied, cautiously, complying as he waved her to a seat at the small table in the corner of the room.

"At ease. This is less a Legion matter than a matter of local politics," he told her and sat down across from her at the table. His unease seemed to abate as he settled in to the conversation. "Before we get to the main subject, tell me what I haven't already heard concerning Whiterun."

"There's not much else to report. The city was protected, the Stormcloaks were routed."

"Due in no small part to your actions, I gather."  Tullius' lips tipped up in a half-smile at this and Gallica almost blushed.  She did not feel particularly responsible for the victory, but there was a part of her that warmed under the General's regard.

"It was a gamble that paid off," she replied, shrugging.  Tullius sat back in his chair, amused.

"I've read Cipius' report. He's convinced that you're a tactical genius in the making. From the sound of it, I'm sure even Gallicus himself would have been hard pressed to come up with that maneuver under pressure."

Gallica flinched internally from habit at the mention of her grandfather, the hauntingly familiar face in her dream rising to the surface of her mind once more. She considered explaining the vision to Tullius. He had known Gallicus after all, he would know what the man had looked like and possibly whether the image was simply a dream born of battle-jitters or something else. At the same time, she could guess how crazy it would sound and decided not to risk sounding foolish. She could not help but feel a spreading warmth at the complement, though. Rarely had anyone ever compared her favorably to her grandfather, and she considered it high praise from Tullius. Before she could formulate a reply, he continued.

"Keep that mindset. We're going to have need of that kind of thinking in the field soon. I'm more curious, however, about your errand in Windhelm."

Ah. That would have been mentioned in the reports as well, Gallica realized uncomfortably. She shifted slightly, weighing her words before speaking.

"You ordered me to secure Balgruuf's cooperation. He asked me to deliver the message and it seemed integral to--"

"You followed the orders you were given, no one can fault you for that," he interrupted, sensibly. "I'm surprised, I suppose, that Ulfric let you leave without a fight."

"He wouldn't violate the rules of honor concerning messengers if anyone was watching, and I didn't give him the chance to catch me alone afterwards," she replied, and related the story of her escape from the city.

"Clever," Tullius observed, appreciatively. "I'll have to look into approaching the Argonians. Ulfric has made a mess of the racial situation there from what I gather. If we have allies right under his nose, so much the better."

Gallica nodded, silently. She wanted to remind him of the promise he had made, to take Ulfric alive if it was possible, but doubted that it would be prudent. Tullius did not seem like the type to order an assassination anyway, especially when he already had an excellent start on winning the war. If that option had been on the table, it would have been attempted by now and the most useful victory for the Empire would include a public shaming of the rebel leader. Even so, she did not want to talk about Ulfric right now, especially with Tullius. And so she deftly tried to change the subject.

"You mentioned there was another matter you wanted to talk about."

Tullius sighed, as if remembering something troublesome.

"Yes. Are you acquainted with Jarl Elisif at all?"

"Not very well, but I've visited the court before."

"And what was your impression?"

"She is . . . young," Gallica observed diplomatically, and Tullius huffed as if that was an understatement. "I'm sure she'll grow into her position."

"She'll have to," he growled and shook his head, frowning. "The girl tries hard enough. She's not a fool, and we could have worse material to work with. But, no one ever prepared her to do more than smile and look the part. Apart from the advice of her staff, she has no idea how to actually lead."

"Her steward and advisors appear competent, though. She seems inclined to listen to them. Perhaps she'll learn over time."

"Mm. I doubt that will be enough to convince the other Jarls at their Moot that she's High Queen material. And we can't risk letting the title fall to someone less sympathetic to the Empire. When this is over, we'll need to shore up her claim to the throne and then see that she's married to someone with a firmer grasp of the situation soon after. Someone with unquestioning loyalty to the Emperor, of course."

"You could always apply for the job," Gallica replied, smiling, and the general emitted a bark of humor, his features settling into an easier grin.

"Hardly. I'd no more rule Skyrim than the Jarls would accept me as king. These barbarian politics - Jarls and Moots and such - are too disorganized.  Besides, I've got enough intrigue to last a life-time with the damn Thalmor. Like you, I'm a soldier. People like us belong in the field.  We're not made to simper around at court. No doubt Elisif would be equally grateful to be spared the horror of that union, too."

Gallica grinned back and shrugged.  "I wouldn't call it a horror. I suppose I'm surprised, though, to hear that there's no Lady Tullius back home in the Imperial City already. As my mother had it, most Imperials of respectable bloodline are married off as soon as they reach a decent age for it."

"I've yet to reach that age, I suppose. Or perhaps I've never been respectable enough." Tullius chuckled, smiling. He relaxed, regarding her more easily now.  "It's always been something that I thought I would get around to one day once the Legion was done with me. Three decades in service have a way of creeping up on you. At this point, I'd have to marry inside the ranks just to find a wife who could put up with me, I suppose.  Barracks manners."

Gallica laughed, genuinely, because she understood the sentiment. Most of the women that she had come up through the ranks with had ended up married to other legionnaires for more or less the same reasons. Those marriages were not always the easiest matches, but no one understood a soldier like another soldier. She had always assumed that she would do the same one day, but circumstances had never aligned.

"To the matter at hand, though," he continued. "There's been some flap down in Dragon Bridge about a haunted cave. The locals are appealing to Elisif for help investigating it and so far nothing has been done from what I can tell. No doubt her steward hopes that it will just blow over, but that makes Elisif look weak in the eyes of the people. We can't afford that.  At the same time, I'd rather not send someone from the Legion regulars to go sort it out. We're already accused of interfering too much in local politics and Elisif's affairs, and that weakens her position as well. I was hoping to persuade you, being their Dragonborn, to go look into it while you're on down time here in the city. As a personal favor."

"Of course, if it will help. Given leave, I'll check with Falk Firebeard in the morning," Gallica agreed and Tullius nodded, relieved.

"Good. Officially, I'm placing you on leave for the next three days. I'm sure Rikke can spare you for that long. I expect it's probably nothing. Animals, maybe, or a few bandits using superstition to protect themselves. We just need to make sure the people see their future High Queen doing something about it. I'll owe you a drink when you get back."

He rose and went over to a chest of drawers, coming back with a light shortsword in his hands.

"While you're here: a token in honor of your promotion." He held the sheathed weapon out to her and Gallica accepted it, pulling the blade carefully and noting with surprise the elegantly fine workmanship on the pommel and crossguard. She was aware of Tullius watching her closely as she tested the edge. "I don't doubt that you have superior quality weapons of your own, but I like to give my officers something to commemorate the occasion.  This blade in particular was given to me when I accepted my first commission - by Gallicus, in fact. It seemed fitting that you should have it."

She ran her fingers over the cold steel of the sword and the neatly wrapped leather of the pommel and looked up at the General, a strange mix of unidentifiable emotions welling up inside of her.  Her grandfather had once held this sword.  He had once given it to Tullius and now Tullius was passing it to her.  A sign?  A coincidence?  Her voice was slightly thick when she responded.

"This has sentimental value for you.  I wouldn't --"

"Things like this need to be passed on to retain their meaning," he replied, gently.  "Besides, I have no doubt the old man would approve."

"Thank you."

Tullius nodded and moved over to the door, opening it for her. She stepped out and he followed her, walking with her back to the war-room.

"I have business to get back to. Come back and fill me on in the Dragon Bridge issue when you're finished. I'll owe you that drink."

Gallica watched him turn back to the men who were still hunched over the maps, moving army markers around like game pieces as they debated, realizing that the odd feeling that had been building in her was actually happiness. It was not the wild emotion she had felt when she had first joined Ulfric in Windhelm, but a more stable optimism - something she had not truly felt since before her brother died. As she made her way back to the barracks to join the others for mess, she reminded herself that the war was far from over and she still had Ulfric's pig-headedness to deal with.  Maybe this was a sign that she was on the right road, though.  Maybe the situation was not as hopeless as it seemed. And it was nice to hear that someone, at least, believed in her - in Gallica personally - rather than just in the Dragonborn.


	13. A Quiet Drink

Worse than draugr-filled ancient barrows, worse than dragons, worse than forts full of bandits, Gallica hated caves.

Human constructions usually displayed a certain amount of sense in their layout. Caves, on the other hand, wound their way through the earth at completely nonsensical angles and slopes that narrowed down to tight fissures in the rock at the most inconvenient places, while also being cold, perpetually wet, full of mud, and almost always inhabited by unpleasant creatures and madmen. Gallica hated caves, and Wolfskull Cave had been a perfect example of the reasons why. If she had a septim for every damned fool cultist trying to harness the power of something clearly far beyond their feeble capabilities that she had met in Skyrim, she could buy the whole of Solitude.

Still, the threat had been neutralized; Queen Potema's shade, which the necromancers had been trying to summon and control, had been dispersed. From the dusty era of her childhood history lessons, Gallica remembered that the woman had been a descendant of Tiber Septim and had instigated a civil war that very nearly succeeded during the Third Era, but very little else about her save that she was supposed to have been a royal terror and a witch. Whatever she had been, she was dead and would fortunately now remain that way thanks to Gallica's interference.

Elisif and her steward had been abundantly and generously grateful. Gallica had not been allowed to leave without accepting the title of Thane of the Jarl's court as well as the obligatory housecarl, a tall blonde woman named Jordis who, like Lydia, carried herself as if she had just been given the most important job in the world. After some negotiation, she had agreed to purchase a house suitable to the title as well and now stood in the drawing room of an Imperial-style manor house in the respectable Palace district. She stared at the shrouded furniture and dusty crates around her and considering the strange chain of events that was her life.

"Thane," Jordis announced, very professionally, from the doorway. "General Tullius is at the door and requests to speak with you."

Though the housecarl appeared to be the stoic type, Gallica could tell that the woman was impressed. There were few people in Solitude who could expect to receive a personal visit from the military governor.

From the landing, she spotted Tullius standing in the foyer near the door. To her even greater surprise, he was out of uniform.  Gallica paused, staring.

She had never seen Tullius out of his armor before. He was dressed in simple well-tailored civilian garb, picked out in tasteful wine-colored fabric and soft brown leather.  He looked like the nobleman that he technically was, although he stood like a soldier even out of armor.  Gallica watched him studying his surroundings with his hands clasped behind his back, waiting on her.

Perhaps it was the peculiar angle of the light striking his face or the shock of trying to imagine him outside of military context, but Gallica momentarily found herself observing that the general was not a bad looking man at all.  Despite his grey hair, he had a physique that was trim and hardened from years of service.  If he had been anyone else, if Gallica had been anyone else, she might have imagined then what he looked like outside of those clothes and leathers.  

But that was a bridge too far for Gallica and she shook her head slightly to clear it.  Tullius noticed her then in any case.  He turned to face her, smiling, and that only magnified the effect.  Gallica fought the blush that was rising in her cheeks and quickly descended the last few steps as if she had not been caught staring.

"I see your excursion was eventful," Tullius commented as he approached her.  

Still blushing, Gallica was grateful for the distraction and looked around the bare room rather than at him.

"I admit, I wasn't prepared for all of this," she replied and shrugged. "But, I needed somewhere to put the housecarl they pushed on me and, if I'm going to be spending time in Solitude anyway . . ."

"That's one way to free up space in the barracks, I suppose," Tullius agreed, good humored.

Gallica found herself smiling, too, now, despite herself.  She was strangely self-conscious in a way that she hadn't felt since she was a girl.  There was a warm prickling feeling along her spine and neck and a heat in her face.  When was the last time that she had blushed?  Never for Ulfric, she thought suddenly, and that thought sobered her.   Fortunately, Tullius continued.  

"I hope my visit isn't an imposition. When I received your message, I decided to save you the trip up to the castle and come see for myself."

"No, not at all. As first guests go, I'm honored," Gallica acknowledged quickly and gestured to the still unpacked room.  "Welcome to Proudspire Manor, such as it is." 

"There are worse places to call home," he chuckled.  "I look forward to hearing the story. And I believe I promised you a drink in exchange for the favor. If you're amenable, we may as well kill two birds with one stone."

"You don't have to-" Gallica began almost instinctively, but the general would not be gainsaid.

"Consider it a point of honor.  I keep my word," he offered, amused. "Besides, it's been an age since I've had an evening off post.  My legates will thank you for providing a few hours distraction so they can work without me breathing down their necks."

This was an excuse, but there was truth in it.  Every soldier from the lowest ranking recruit to the highest ranking general needed time to relax.  And it was clear to her that Tullius wanted her to accompany him.  
  
 _Why not?_ Gallica asked herself, finally, and acquiesced.  The only thing else that awaited her that evening was cleaning.  
  
"I'll wash up and grab my cloak."

Within a few moments, Gallica was back out on the wintery street and walking beside Tullius as they started towards the market district. Dusk was falling, but the air was clear and sharp with the ocean breeze that moaned through the natural stone arch on which Solitude's palace district was built.  The wind carried the lilting music from the bard's college next door throughout the street.

Gallica had quickly washed her face, ran a comb through her hair, and, as a quick afterthought, changed into a fresh tunic.  Her better clothes were in Whiterun, but she had brought a few things in case she was needed at court and an evening out was a rare treat these days.  Besides, if Tullius was going to dress for the occasion, Gallica reasoned, she might as well do the same.  The blue tunic with white trim went well with the white ice wolf fur that lined her new winter cloak.  Gallica had smiled as she caught a glimpse of herself in a darkening window pane.  For once, she looked almost like the lady that her mother had wanted her to be.

Tullius nodded to the guardsmen as they made their way past Castle Dour toward the open market and the Winking Skeever. It was the busiest of the city's inns, but there was no better place to go on an evening in Solitude and the quality of the mead had only increased now that Riften was back in loyalist hands. With the lanterns lit and the Imperial masonry of the buildings looming tall around them - and if not for the bitter cold - they might have been in Cyrodiil. A few heads turned when they entered the inn, but fortunately they had come early enough that finding a private table was not difficult.

Once situated, with cups of mead in front of them both, Gallica filled the general in on what she had found in the cave.  He listened carefully and then shook his head with a sigh.

"I'll never understand mages. The ones that aren't blowing things up seem to be Oblivion-bent on necromancy, summoning up daedra, and Divines only know what else. A resurrected Potema." He snorted.

"I don't suppose we'll ever know why," Gallica observed.  "I found nothing that would indicated a wider conspiracy or threat."

"Thank you for taking care of it. I pity the two-bit mercenary that Firebeard would have sent down there in your place," replied Tullius as he sipped his mead.  He glanced up at her over the rim of his cup. "Not that I'm pleased to have sent you into a dangerous situation, but I'd rather it was someone who knew what they were doing than some poor grunt with more muscle than brains."

Gallica smiled at the praise and raised her glass, magnanimously.

"When General Tullius asks, who am I to refuse?"

"Ha!" the general exclaimed, grinning at the joke as he leaned back in his chair.  "Would that all of Skyrim shared that opinion. But let's have no titles tonight. I'm out of uniform, I'm in a decent tavern, I've got good company, and no reason to ruin it all with formalities. In that spirit, another round is just about due, I think."

Gallica offered to get it, but was refused. When Tullius returned, he deposited the drinks on the table as well as a loose cloth pouch. As he shook out a handful of polished stones in two colors, Gallica smiled in recognition. Mills was a popular hearth game here in Skyrim. The tables all had the familiar pattern of straight and diagonal lines carved into the center of them. Each player had nine pieces to place on the board. The object was to eliminate your opponent's pieces by sliding your own along the joining lines to create rows of three. Though the matches were usually short, a game between skilled players was often a source of great entertainment on cold nights.

"You've played before, I take it?" Tullius asked as she reached to help him sort the stones.

"My father taught me when I was a child," Gallica replied, picking up one of the smooth, gray playing pieces and fingering it with both nostalgia and interest.

"Aside from the mead, it's one of the few things I've learned to appreciate about Skyrim," he grunted in replay and racked the blue-black stones over to his side.  He nodded to her, seeming to relax into the game. "Beauty before age, as the rules go."

As making the first move conferred a very slight tactical advantage, it was customary to let the younger or less experienced player go first. Considering carefully, Gallica placed her first piece at the junction of two lines in the outer square of the playing grid. She was beginning to feel pleasantly warm and relaxed from the combination of the mead and the buoyant atmosphere of the inn.  The hassles and bruises and worries of the last few weeks began to drop away as her focus settled on the game.

"Your father was from Skyrim, was he?" Tullius asked, as they placed their pieces on the board, setting up traps and blocking each other in turn.

"No. My grandfather was from Whiterun.  He came down to Cyrodiil with the Legion and stayed after he met my grandmother. My father was born in Bruma.  He talked about going back to visit the hold homestead here once or twice, but I don't suppose my mother would have stood for it. Which is just as well, to be honest. Skyrim has had enough old dragons to cope with already."

Tullius chuckled and moved a piece to counter one of Gallica's forming mills.

"If your mother was anything like her father, you're probably right," Tullius replied and moved a piece to counter one of Gallica's forming mills.

"What was Gallicus like?" Gallica asked, eagerly, warming to the subject like a child asking for a bedtime story as she finished her move. "I've heard all about his battles, but not much else. Mother talked about him as if he were a second Tiber Septim.  The subject was painful to her."

"Well, I wouldn't go that far. He had flaws like any man - such as a temper that could stop a bear in its tracks once he was roused. He was a model of self-control for the most part, but I wouldn't have wanted to be the one to upset him when he let loose." Tullius smiled as if remembering.  "General Gallicus was likely one of the most intelligent men ever to go through the Legion. He had a talent for finding the smallest weaknesses and exploiting them. Sometimes, I think he knew what an enemy was going to do before they did themselves. The thing that I remember most about him, though, was how he treated his men. It didn't matter whether he was dealing with a Legate or the least of the recruits.  He loved his men as if they were his own sons.  He trained them hard, listened to their concerns. He could be a tough old bastard - you have to be sometimes to get the job done - but he never expected more from his troops than he was prepared to give himself, and his men loved him back for that. In all, he was a officer of great skill and nobility."

Tullius sipped his drink thoughtfully, as he considered the game pieces, and then glanced up at Gallica.  His expression had softened.  He nodded to her, smiling.

"Traits that I'm sure he would be pleased to see in his granddaughter."

"I'm hardly worthy to follow in those footsteps," Gallica demurred stiffly, and the general made a doubtful noise.

"I wouldn't be so sure.  You seem to be off to a good start with this dragon business."  He grinned warming to the subject. "Now, my family - there's an auspicious line to have to live up to. It broke my father's heart when I decided to join the Legion rather than take up the family business of court intrigue and skullduggery."

Gallica listened, laughing, as Tullius entertained her with tales of the exploits and proclivities of his various dysfunctional noble relatives. They sent for more mead.  She won the first game of Mills, and the general accepted defeat graciously. He won the rematch.  The inn had filled up nicely, creating a soothing susurrus of voices in the room that gently underlay the bard's lyre. The candles had burn down in their sconces enough to cast smoky shadows in the corners of the great room.  The flames were beginning to take on hazy haloes to Gallica's eye, signaling to her that she was well on her way to being pleasantly drunk. Whatever sense of rank had prevented Tullius and her from talking frankly before seemed to have vanished under the influence of the mead.

"Picking up from one of our previous conversations," Tullius began, leaning on one elbow on the table as he regarded. "Indulge my curiosity a moment. You expressed surprise that I should be unmarried.  How have you avoided marriage yourself? I can't imagine that half your cohort wasn't fighting each other for privilege back home."

"I never found the right man," Gallica shrugged, a gesture that seemed to take longer than usual. "I had little in common with any of the boys my mother found suitable.  The timing was never right.  Because I had a legacy to live up to.  I had battles still to fight.  I didn't want to leave a broken heart behind me."

Perhaps she had drunk a little bit more than she had thought. An image of Ulfric swam through her mind, but she shook her head to dislodge it. She didn't want to think about him tonight; she could resume that heartache tomorrow. Defiant of the memory, she took another quaff of her drink.  Tullius, listening, hummed in agreement.  His dark eyes were sympathetic.  No doubt he knew what she was referring to all too well.

"It pays to choose carefully," he agreed and shook his head. "But there's never a good time for people like us. I've been saying 'when I get home from this campaign' for years now. If I've learned anything, it's that you have to take the opportunity when it comes and damn the timing. That's what I intend on doing this time around anyway."

"So, you do have your eye on someone, then," Gallica replied, grinning conspiratorially, as she pulled the discussion out of troubled waters. "Anyone I know?  What's she like?"

"Strong. Fierce even, which she'd have to be to put up with me, I suppose," the general responded, sitting back in his chair and toying with his clay cup as he regarded her, amused.  "Beautiful, but that goes without saying. Good family. A bit young for me, but not improperly so. Legion, of course, so courting her may be tricky."

Gallica listened, trying to imagine who the general could be talking about. She hadn't seen many female legionnaires in Solitude, so the choices were few if the woman in question was a legionnaire. Suddenly, it dawned on her. Rikke. She fit the description perfectly and the two of them spent so much time together planning the war. It was obvious, and she smiled at the thought. It certainly made for a good romance.

"What do you think? Should I risk it?" he asked, jovially.

Gallica didn't know how Rikke felt about Tullius in that way or whether the older woman had romantic interests of her own elsewhere, but, from watching them interact with each other, she could see possibility there. They already bickered like an old married couple.

"I think she would be surprised, but it sounds like a perfect fit to me."

"Good, I'm glad to hear it," he agreed, sounding pleased.

He won the third game of Mills, by which time the evening had become something of a blur and they finally agreed that it was time to go while they were both still capable of walking upright. They emerged back onto the cold street, laughing at some joke that Gallica couldn't even remember, and the stars gleamed too brightly down through horse-tail clouds like diamonds or spears of ice. The chill was bracing and roused her a little, though putting one step directly in front of the other required more attention than usual.

"I'll walk you home," Tullius told her as they passed by the ramp up to the fortress.

The streets were empty and silent, except for the wind. Gallica mumbled a protest about not wanting him to go out of his way, but he insisted.

"It's only good manners to walk a lady home at the end of the evening.  Especially if she's drunk and disorderly."

"You're drunk, too," she pointed out to him. "Who's going to walk you home?"

He grinned at her and Gallica was not sure whether the warmth that spread through her from from the drink or the company.

"It's not that far. If the guards find me passed out in the road, they'll know where to take me."

It seemed strange to be going to the palace district and not the barracks, but it looked like Jordis had lit a fire and the wall sconces inside the manor while they were gone. A soft, yellow glow filtered out of the slightly dingy glasses, making the house seem more alive than it had been previously.  Gallica stopped before the door and turned to Tullius.  She was tired and ready for bed, but it seemed a pity to bring a pleasant evening to an end.

"We could dust off a bed for you, if you don't want to walk back," she offered, realizing as she said it that the words were more slurred than usual.  She gestured rather inaccurately at the house and reflected that she had drunk more than she should have, perhaps. "There's more rooms in there than I know what to do with. Must be a bed in one of them."

Tullius was studying the stars overhead, but when he looked back down at her, it was with an oddly searching expression. Maybe he wasn't so drunk after all, Gallica mused briefly and blushed again, this time in embarrassment. The general stepped closer to her and laid his hands on her shoulders as if to steady her, though Gallica was standing still. The touch set off a strange cascade of conflicting reactions in Gallica despite the layers of cloth and fur that prevented her from feeling the warmth of his palms.  She was paralyzed, looking back at him, as he studied her face carefully.  

She felt rooted to the spot, as if her body were pulling her in two different directions.  A sudden, awkward, and electric desire to lean in and kiss him reared itself in the back of her mind - or perhaps it was that he wanted to kiss her and she could see it there in his dark eyes.

 _That can't be right_ , she thought to herself, turning this over in her mind.  And then the moment passed.

Tullius squeezed her shoulders before stepping back.

"Not tonight," he told her, gently, as he were answering a different question - one that she couldn't remember asking. He stepped back.  "Get some rest. I'll check in with you tomorrow about your marching orders."

As he turned to go, Gallica took a step after him.

"Hey."

The general paused. She felt that she needed to say something, but she had no idea what or why she felt it was necessary. Finally, after a moment's futile struggle to express herself, a thought struck up from their earlier conversation.  

"The woman that you were talking about earlier. She'd be lucky to have someone like you."

Tullius smiled faintly back at her in the torchlight and nodded before turning and starting back up the road towards Dour. Feeling foolish, Gallica exhaled a long breath of steam into the night air and stumbled up the steps to the door, finding it unlocked. Mercifully, Jordis had expected her return, otherwise who knew how long she would have been out there in the cold fumbling for the key. She waved away the housecarl's attempts at assistance and made her way slowly up the stairs and into the master bedchamber. Cobwebs still hung in the corners of the room, but Gallica had pulled the dustcovers off of the four-poster bed earlier in the day.

Unceremoniously, she collapsed onto the densely-stuffed mattress, smelling the faint odor of dust and the rosemary leaves that had been stuffed with the mattress to ward off fleas as her face pressed against the smooth linen. She should undress, or at least take her boots off, but that would entail moving and Gallica was too comfortable where she was. Wrapping her arms around one of the pillows, she remembered the look on Tullius' face and the feel of his hands on her shoulders.  She wondered if she would remember it in the morning.  Then, her final thought before sleep overtook her, she remembering that she had not slept in a bed this large since leaving Windhelm.  It felt lonely without someone else there next to her in the darkness.

~~0~~

When Gallica awoke, it was to broad daylight streaming in through the window that did nothing to sooth the monstrous headache that was beating on her skull like a blacksmith's anvil.  As she pulled the fur coverlet over her face to block out the irritant, she was suffused with the unsettling feeling of waking up in an unfamiliar place and being unable to remember how she had gotten there.  At last, it came back to her.  She had purchased Proudspire the previous day.  She was asleep in her clothes because she had gotten quite drunk last night.  Relief passed through her as the pieces of information fell into place.  And she had been drinking with General Tullius, who had kindly seen her home.

Gallica sat bolt upright in the bed, never mind the headache.

 _Talos have mercy_.

She rose quickly.  As she shuffled downstairs to find the privy or at least a cup of water and some hair-of-the-dog to lessen the pounding in her head, she found Jordis already at work in the sitting room and trying to pull some order into the chaos.

"What time is it?" she asked the housecarl, her heartbeat picking up speed as the angle of the light told her brain that it was much later than she needed it to be.

"Nearly mid-day, I think."

Gallica cursed. She had to report in to the Pale tomorrow and, even though she was still on leave, she had intended to get an early start today and she had to report in to Tullius at Castle Dour. Quickly completing her morning necessities and ablutions, she dressed herself and paused in the foyer to rifle through her pack.

"I'll be leaving this afternoon for the front," she called to Jordis and hurriedly passed the woman a pouch of gold. "This should be enough to purchase furnishings for the house and stock the larder while I'm gone."

"Of course, my Thane. But, shouldn't I accompany you?" the housecarl asked, hopefully.

"Legion business, I'm afraid. I'm not sure when I'll be back."

"As you wish," the woman replied, holding back a sigh, so much like Lydia would have done that Gallica briefly wondered if the two were related.

At last, she hurried out into the street, pulling on her cloak as she walked. She needed supplies, and she needed to meet with Tullius to find out what to expect in the Pale and the location of the camp. It would have been better to get an early start today and catch up with the slower-moving legion, but that was out of the question now. She would have to ride cross country as it was to make the Pale by nightfall. While Gallica had ridden over much of the Hjaalmarch before, she was not as familiar with Dawnstar's territory and, if the clouds on the horizon were any indicator, there would be snow tonight. Better to push through while the weather was clear than slog through a blizzard tomorrow.

As it happened, Tullius was not there when she arrived at the fortress. Legate Adventus, taking charge while the general and Rikke were away, informed her that some urgent business had come up, but that Gallica should report to Rikke in the Pale as planned. He showed her the location of the camp on the map.

"Be careful out there. The weather is turning, and that's bad country to be in during a storm," he warned her, before seeming to remember something. Rifling through the papers on the table, he came up with a sealed piece of parchment. "This is for you, as well. I was going to send it with a messenger, but since you're here - take it. Good luck in the field, Quaestor. Kill a few of those traitors for me."

As she made her way back down into the main street of Solitude, Gallica broke the seal of the letter and opened it. It was a brief note from Tullius, explaining what Adventus had already told her and making his apologies.

"As for last evening, it was a pleasure," she read to herself, soundlessly. "Now that you have a house in Solitude, I hope to see more of you as the war effort permits. We will discuss further when you return from the Pale."

Most of the latter part of the night was foggy to her, but luckily it appeared that Gallica had not completely embarrassed herself. As commanding officers went, she respected Tullius and wanted him to think well of her. Outside of that, she liked him. She understood him.  It was good to feel comfortable with someone without constantly trying to push through the heavy veils of differing cultures and worldviews in every conversation. If she had had that with Ulfric, instead of the exhausting, exhilarating mess that their relationship had been to date, then maybe everything would have turned out differently.

But that was not how things had gone, she reminded herself severely.  There was no use wishing for Ulfric to be different than how he was, and that they came from two different places and two different backgrounds was no one's fault. The fact was that she loved him, despite everything.  If she succeeded in getting him out of Skyrim before someone could send his head back to the Imperial City, they would either work through it or they would not. In the meantime, though, Gallica reasons that she might as well enjoy the burgeoning friendship with Tullius.

It was harmless.  And friends were in short supply these days.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tullius is a smooth operator. ;)


	14. The Storm Breaks

 

 All the world was whiteness, wind, and bitter cold. The storm had howled down into the swamp out of the north earlier than Gallica had anticipated, moving from light flakes to driving snowfall within an hour. In the end, it drove her back toward the south in an attempt to find the main road. The terrain was just too treacherous to cross with poor visibility and the knowledge that it would only get worse the further she went north. She would need to weather the storm in Morthal and continue on when the snow had abated.

Following the road, however, was hardly an improvement. Deep drifts were forming, some reaching knee height, and Gallica began to worry for the horse. It would be all too easy for it to break a leg under these conditions. Frost clung to the animal's shaggy coat and periodically she would have to lay her gloved hand over its nostrils to melt the ice that was collecting from its breath. The animal heaved as it struggled to breathe. They would have to find a place to shelter soon, but the snow obscured all visible landmarks from which to judge her location.

Finally, Gallica spotted a light in the distance - a beacon in the storm - and changed directions towards the promise of relief. It was not Morthal, just a single large hall among the trees, but there were few people in Skyrim who would deny hospitality to a traveler in a blizzard. As she pulled the horse into the yard, she recognized the place as Nightgate Inn. She had traveled past it on her way to Morthal several times before, but she had never been as grateful to see it as she was now. With a murmured prayer of thanks to the gods, she found the small stable at the back and quartered the horse out of the wind before making her way into the inn.

The main room was nearly empty. The innkeeper leaned listlessly behind the bar, and there was only one patron in evidence - a blonde girl dressed in Stormcloak armor, lurking close to the wall. Perhaps a scout that had been caught by the weather and sought shelter here. The girl hardly looked old enough to carry a sword and she edged away nervously under Gallica's gaze, as if planning to bolt at any second.

"By Ysmir's beard," the innkeeper exclaimed, standing as Gallica went immediately to the long hearth in the center of the room and let the heat wash over her. Her cold limbs ached as the feeling returning to her fingertips, the warmth spreading over her cold-chapped face like a balm. "I wouldn't have thought anyone would be out in this weather!"

"I was caught on the road," she explained, though she was shivering so hard she could hardly keep her voice steady. "Do you have a room I can rent from you for the night?"

"You're welcome to it. Wouldn't send man nor beast back outside in that," he replied, gesturing to one of the doors that lead off from the main room.

A thought seemed to strike him and a concerned expression crossed his face. He glanced at the Stormcloak, who was trying to seem as small and inconspicuous as possible. Gallica shook her head.

"I'm not here for that," she said and turned to the girl. "I'll hold truce until the weather clears if you will."

Hesitantly, the Stormcloak nodded. She looked frightened and Gallica could sympathize. Maybe she had been talked into joining by friends or family, maybe she had been swayed by the same misguided sense of patriotism that Ulfric's rhetoric had stirred up in so many others, or maybe the little bit of coin and the occasional hot meal was better than whatever life she had had before.  The girl clearly knew she was in over her head now.

_Take the lesson_ , Gallica thought at her, remembering the dead faces of other Stormcloaks strewn in the dirt at Whiterun. _Go home while you still can._

Weary, she ate a modest supper, braved the snow again long enough to ensure that the horse was watered and fed, and retired to her room. It was early yet, but she wanted nothing more than to sleep for an age and she guessed that the Stormcloak would rest easier if she was out of sight. As she stripped off her gear and pulled the fur coverlet around her in the small bed, she could hear the wind shrieking across the roof like a vengeful spirit trying to tear its way in through the thatch and the distant cracking and groaning of the trees as they bowed under their increasing burdens of ice and snow. She had a feeling that she would not be leaving the inn tomorrow either. In the end, the plans of empires, Stormcloaks, and Jarls were secondary. Nature ruled in Skyrim, and right now it was choosing to exercise its sovereignty.

When she woke in the morning, she found that her intuition was correct. The storm had abated into a slow steady snowfall, but the accumulation on the ground was thigh-deep and higher in some places. The innkeeper had had to tunnel his way out to see to his animals earlier and said that even the trees were coated with thick shells of ice. The Stormcloak, however, was nowhere in evidence.

"Told her it was a damn foolish thing to do," the innkeeper rumbled with a shrug. "Suppose she was afraid you might come after her eventually after all and decided to make off while she could. Still, she's through here a few times a month, so she knows the area."

Gallica shook her head, frowning at the senselessness of it all, but there was nothing to be done. The girl had made her decision and hopefully she wouldn't pay for it with her life. Perhaps she would find her way to one of the nearby farms and take shelter there.

The day passed monotonously, as did the next. The winds had ceased, but the snow did not seem to be in a hurry to melt and it was still too dangerous to risk traveling. Gallica read, wrote in her journal, and helped the innkeeper split logs to help keep hearth stoked. No doubt any military action was paralyzed by the storm, but she still felt restless at being unable to report in to her post. At intervals, she wondered if the Stormcloak had managed to find her way to shelter after all. If not, the girl was almost certainly frozen to death by now. It was a depressing thought.

Late in the afternoon on the third day, another traveler arrived. He was broad-shouldered, scruffy and wind-chapped Nord, and Gallica supposed he must be a mercenary of some type from his battered leather cuirass and the long-hafted axe that was strapped over his shoulder. The innkeeper greeted him heartily, as if he were a long-time acquaintance.

"Storm caught me out on a hunting trip," the sellsword explained in between bites as he bolted down a bowl of stew like a starving man. "Spent the last couple of days holed up in a cave. Was just able to dig myself out and get my bearings this morning."

"Did you happen to see a girl on your way here? Stormcloak, probably alone?" Gallica asked him.

"Well, I did at that," the sellsword replied slowly, as if remembering. "Looked like she was headed back towards Whiterun way."

Gallica nodded, relieved. If the girl was still traveling, then she would probably come out alright, despite the risk. It might not be the best thing tactically - the girl knew where Gallica was and that might tip the Stormcloaks off to the coming invasion of the Pale - but, personally, Gallica was not sorry to hear that the scout was alive.

With little else to do, she let the sellsword draw her into a friendly game of bones. He seemed the jocular type, inclined to do most of the talking himself, and she listened while he told her all about his exploits and travels. He seemed to have no idea who she was, and she felt no need to enlighten him. As darkness crept over the blanched landscape outside, she helped the innkeeper put together a dinner for them all and, in a festive mood, he pulled down a bottle of Cyrodiilic Brandy from the top shelf of the bar.

"Looks like the roads might clear enough to be passable by tomorrow," the innkeeper said as he poured out ramikens of the golden liquid behind the bar. "Seems like reason enough to celebrate to me."

"Drink this fine requires a toast," the sellsword replied, grinning, as he accepted a cup.

Gallica took hers, the alcoholic scent of the liquor strong. The bottle must have been well-aged, but then she supposed there was not much call for expensive Imperial imports here.

The sellsword raised his cup grandly as he declared, "May the gods grant us victory and bring us all safely home again."

The innkeeper grunted his assent and Gallica raised her glass wordlessly. The brandy burned fiercely as it went down, almost evaporating in her mouth. Potent, indeed. There was a slight, odd aftertaste, but that was hardly unusual for brandy that had been sitting up for a long time. Still, she guessed that one cup of this stuff was enough for an evening.

"Where are you bound when the snow clears?" the mercenary asked her, conversationally, and she shrugged.

"East." The man seemed harmless enough, but she didn't want to broadcast her plans just in case.

"You look like a soldier.  Is this a trip for business or pleasure?"

"I'm visiting family," Gallica replied, finishing the last of what was in her cup and setting it aside.

The innkeeper arched an eyebrow at her, doubtfully. It was not expressly a lie. Aside from the cousins in Whiterun, the Legion was the only family she had left. The sellsword seemed oblivious to the lie.

"Must be nice. Haven't seen mine in ages, which I'm sure is a great source of relief for them," the man quipped and grinned.

The innkeeper offered to refill her ramiken and she put her hand over the rim, demurring. The single cup had affected her more than she had thought it would. In fact, as she listened to the men talk, she found it harder to concentrate on what was being said. Blinking, she tried to force herself back into the present.

"Well, now, I wouldn't have figured you for a lightweight," the mercenary laughed at her, and she stood, bracing herself on the table.

"I'm going to turn in. If the roads are clear enough, I need to get an early start," she said, forming the words with considerable difficulty. Her legs wobbled unsteadily under her and the world spun, seeming to tilt dangerously to the left. Too late, she realized what had happened.

"Bastards," Gallica slurred, fumbling for the dagger at her belt as she collapsed onto her knees.  As the darkness that had begun to collect at the corners of her vision overwhelmed her, she felt hands close in on her upper arms and shoulders.

~~0~~

When consciousness returned, it was to a dull, throbbing ache in Gallica's head and the sounds of voices around her. There was something cottony and foul-tasting clogging her mouth, but she couldn't spit it out.  When she tried to raise her hands to remove it - finding that her wrists were bound together tightly - someone grabbed her arms.

"Don't let her get that gag out, she'll Shout us all to Oblivion."

As more bodies moved in around her, Gallica twisted in a sudden panic like an angry cat, kicking out and feeling her boot connect hard with another body. There was a pained yelp and then a fist smashed into her jaw.  She tasted blood as it soaked into the rag that was jammed into her mouth and held in place by a tight gag. Snarling with rage, Gallica threw her weight into her shoulder, body-slamming one of her attackers and using her fists and arms like a club. There were too many of them, though, and they wrestled her writhing to the ground. Pinpricks of fire spread across her scalp as someone grasped her hair and twisted it painfully, and she roared a torrent of unintelligible profanity through the gag.

"Easy! She's not to be harmed," someone protested nearby.

It was an oddly familiar voice, but one she could not place. Gallica snorted for breath, as the faces of a half a dozen Stormcloaks came into focus around her. One of them was bleeding profusely from a busted nose, several sported bright red abrasions from where her blows had struck home. All of them regarded her with an expression of mixed anger, fear, and wariness. The sellsword was there, though now he was dressed in Stormcloak armor, and she glared at him hatefully. He only grinned back at her.  One face in particular, though, caught her attention and made her freeze momentarily in surprise when she realized who the familiar voice had belonged to.

Ralof seemed almost embarrassed to be there as he pushed his way through the men to kneel down in front of her where they had her pinned down to the floorboards of the inn, someone's knee pushing painfully into her back.

"Easy, kinswoman," he soothed at her, though she could tell by the guilty-as-sin look on his face that he didn't expect her to be soothed. She stared directly into his eyes and saw him flinch slightly at the expression of rage boiling just at the surface of her own. Still he tried.  "You know me. Hold up.  No one's going to hurt you."

She knew that words would be pointless with the gag in place, so she emitted a guttural growl of anger instead.

"We're taking you back to Windhelm. Jarl Ulfric wants you brought home safe. No one wants to make this harder than it already is. Just relax."

_Windhelm_. The thought of what was waiting for her there galvanized her into more desperate struggles. Either Ulfric thought she could be reasoned with or he had given up on her and wanted to finish the job himself. Either way, if they succeeded in getting her to Windhelm, a prison cell was the best she could hope for.

"Put her out or we'll never get her out of here!" one of the men roared. An arm tried to snake around her neck and she tucked her chin to stop it until one of them punched her in the ribs and she emitted a strangled bellow pain, losing her concentration. The arm constricted around her throat and almost immediately a whiteness began to cloud her eyes. She struggled frantically to free herself, but, in the end, the darkness reclaimed her.

The next time that Gallica awoke, the world jolted and rolled around her. The sound of horses and wind was in her ears and for a brief, terrifying instant she thought she was back on the cart going down to Helgen towards execution. As she opened her eyes and the memory of what had happened came to her, she realized she was not far off of the truth.

The Stormcloaks had slung her into the saddle on her horse, tying her hands to her pommel and her feet into the stirrups so that she would not fall off. She was still gagged and her body ached as if she had been beaten with iron bars. The coppery taste of stale blood, her own, was still in her mouth. Ralof, mounted on his own shaggy steed, was leading her horse and he looked back as she stirred.

"You're awake. I was beginning to get worried," he said.

Gallica looked around, trying to discern where they were. Dark, skeletal trees and knee-deep snow surrounded them on either side of the road. They could be anywhere in Skyrim north of the Reach. Ralof stopped, coaxing her horse to move up beside his. He looked her over as if to ascertain whether she was alright, though he avoiding looking into her eyes directly. He sighed, leaning closer to her.  

"I'm sorry about this. It should take us another day to get back to Windhelm at this pace. I have to keep you in binds until then."

As they rode on, Gallica pulled at the ropes and tried to stretch her sore muscles as she looked around at the other Stormcloaks, sizing them up. Eight of them, including Ralof. None of them looked like timid recruits. Even if she managed to free herself, it would take some doing to get away. Silently, she assessed her situation, looking for any way she might cut through her bonds. If they had not searched through her saddle bags, there should be a set of daggers there, but she had no way of reaching them. There was nothing sharp on the saddle that she could rub the ropes against. For the moment, she was stuck.

Her mouth was so dry. If she could just drink something, it might calm the pounding in her temples as well. Suddenly, a thought struck her. They wouldn't deprive her of water if she was supposed to be brought back to Ulfric alive and in good condition. Ralof was not that cruel of a man. To give her water, they would have to remove the gag. A plan began to form, and she knew she would only get one opportunity to get it right.

It was after midday when Ralof decided to stop. For the last few miles, Gallica had done her best to look beaten and ill, slumping forward in the saddle. Concerned, he dismounted and came back, laying a hand on her thigh.

"Hey, kinswoman, you okay?" he asked.

As theatrically as she could, Gallica heaved through her nostrils, turning what she hoped was a glassy stare on him. She made a strangled sound in her throat as if she were choking. Nervously, Ralof glanced at the others and then fumbled with the ropes that bound her feet into the stirrups.

"Let's get you down and let you rest for a moment."

She slipped limply out of the saddle like a sack of potatoes as they helped her down and she fell right to her knees, leaning forward onto her forearms as she made struggled coughing sounds. The men crowded around her, lifting her up, and she slumped in their grasp.

"There's a clear spot over there," she heard Ralof direct them. Everything was going to plan so far. She closed her eyes and concentrated on seeming as pathetic and injured as possible. They sat her down under an overhang of stone, sheltered from the thick snow, and leaned her back against the rock wall. Ralof knelt down beside her, peering into her face with a worried look.

"Are you alright?" he asked, and she groaned. He bit his lip, weighing the options, and then reached for her gag. "I'm going to remove this thing. Just be easy, okay?"

She stayed still while he loosened and unwound the fabric wrapped around her head and pulled the lump of cloth out of her mouth. She hacked and coughing, gasping for breath pitifully.

"Water," she croaked, and Ralof nodded. He stood and jogged back to the horses and she watched surreptitiously through the hair that hung in sweaty, blood-caked strands across her brow as he pulled something from his horse and started back. He knelt back down, uncorked the leather canteen and raised it to her lips. She drank greedily, because she really was thirsty, and sat back gasping.

"That's better, isn't it?" he said, smiling hopefully. Gallica raised her wrists to wipe her mouth on the back of her hands, and took a deep breath. In one smooth, lightning fast movement, she pushed herself off from the rock, wrapped her bound wrists around Ralof's neck and drug him back down with her. Taken by surprised, he yelped and tried to push her away, put she wrenched violently to the side, breaking his balance and wrapped her powerful legs around him, getting better leverage as she shifted her grip on his neck until the crook of her elbow was under his chin.

The Stormcloaks were running towards her and she waited until they were almost upon her before letting out the deep breath in a vigorous Thu'um.

" _ **Faas ru maar!**_ "

Almost as one, her attackers stopped in their tracks, their eyes growing wide in sudden terror. Then, they backpedaled, some slipping in the dense snow and climbing over each other to get away, fleeing as if she were some horror rearing up from the depths of Oblivion to devour them all. Ralof sobbed for breath, trying to twist out of the choke hold, but she only tightened it.

"Stop," she commanded, so fiercely that Ralof immediately went limp. She loosened her hold only slightly. "Cut me loose. And by the Eight, if you try anything, I will make sure that the only thing left of you will be charred bones and a bad memory."

Gallica watched carefully as Ralof slowly drew the dagger at his belt, holding it where she could see it. She released the choke hold, leaning forward so that her arms were out in front of him, just far enough that he could reach her bonds as he quickly slashed through the ropes. The instant her hands were free, she grabbed him by the nape of the neck and shoved him forward, slamming him to the ground as she knelt over him.

"Where is my sword? My armor?"

"On my horse," Ralof grunted, and then continued, "No one was going to hurt you, I swear it."

"Really? You think this was just Ulfric's way of inviting me to dinner?"

"He just wants to talk to you. All we were supposed to do was bring-"

Gallica slammed him down again and his sentence was cut off by a pained yell. Furiously, she leaned down until her lips were nearly next to his ear.

"You saved my life once. So, I'm giving you yours now. If I ever see you under these circumstances again, Ralof, I will kill you. Friends or not.  Go back. Tell Ulfric to come himself next time if he wants to talk to me."

With that, she stood and stalked off towards the horses. She did not even look back to see Ralof scramble to his feet as she pulled the bundle of her armor and belongings off of his horse and tied it to her own saddle. Ralof might not be the most intelligent man she had met, but he wasn't a complete fool. Gallica knew that he would not risk attacking her after what had just happened. She swung up onto her horse, reined it around to the west, and rode off as quickly as she dared with the snow still dense on the ground, head high, and did not look back.

~~0~~

By the time she finally found the Imperial camp, neatly hidden in the cleft of the mountains that straddled the border between the Hjaalmarch and the Pale, Gallica reckoned that she was close to a week overdue. She had made a brief stop in Morthal to clean herself up and report the incident to Legate Taurinus so that he would be aware of the situation if the Stormcloaks were foolish enough to try and track her. Evidently, Ralof had wisely decided to let it go, because she saw no sign of them as she picked her way through the mountains towards the northern coast. When, at last, she arrived and stepped into the scant warmth of the commander's tent to see Rikke and another Legate, a tall Nord, leaning over a map, she prepared herself for a lecture.

"What happened to you?" Rikke demanded, seriously, looking Gallica up and down. Dark bruises still blossomed on her face and arms from the struggle.  The Legate frowned, concerned. "You look like you lost a wrestling match with a bear."

"In a manner of speaking, ma'am," Gallica replied, tacking on the honorific for the benefit of the strange officer. "I was detained by the storm and I ran into a Stormcloak patrol along the way."

From the look in Rikke's eye, she knew that the older woman suspected there was more to the story, but would wisely wait to get the details later.

"Well, you're here now. And just in time. We have a plan for the assault on Dawnstar, but it's going to take some preparation to pull off. Before we make any definite battle plans, we need to know what we're marching into. Information out of Dawnstar has been spotty ever since Whiterun. There's a pass-off point for Stormcloak couriers at Nightgate Inn. If you can catch one before he hands off his pouch, we could intercept the orders that are being sent in to Dawnstar and see what they're up to, maybe sow a little bit of mischief of our own. Can I count on you, soldier?"

Gallica smiled, humorlessly, thinking about how all things seemed to come full circle. She wouldn't mind returning to Nightgate Inn. There was a certain innkeeper that needed the fear of the gods put into him.

"Yes, ma'am."

"Good. Rest tonight, get your strength back together. You can head out in the morning. Dismissed."

Gallica saluted and left. She passed the huddle of legionnaires sitting around the fire and found the quartermaster, who directed her to an empty spot in one of the tents. Two men slept there already, the sound of their snores like a sawmill, but she was not inclined to be picky after the last few days as long as she could sleep.

As she sat her equipment aside and rolled out her sleeping pallet, she stopped and fingered the ring Ulfric had given her, still on her left hand. Galmar would have simply had her killed, so she had no doubt Ulfric had been the one to give the order. The question was: why? He had told her that he would stop her, that he wouldn't let Tullius turn her against him. Did he think he was saving her from herself somehow or did he just want her out of the way for strategic reasons? She could never tell how much of his own propaganda Ulfric actually believed.

In the darkness of the tent, Gallica lay down, clenching her fist around the token as she blinked back the tears that were forming in the corners of her eyes. There was a part of her that almost wished she had just let them take her on to Windhelm. At least then, she would know why. Since Whiterun, she had almost stopped thinking about Ulfric except in the future tense, what was going to happen, what she would have to do to save his life. Now, the wrenching awfulness of the entire situation welled up once more out of the dark place it had been living in the bottom of her mind.

There was no way that Gallica could think about what had happened after High Hrothgar now without seeing it as an enormous mistake, even if it was one she could not make herself regret. If she had just gone home that night before she had faced Alduin, rather than let loneliness and need chase her into Ulfric's arms, then all of her decisions since would have been easier. After that, because letting herself love him filled a void inside of her that had gone empty for far too long, she had deluded herself into thinking that she could reason with him, that loving her would temper the sharp edges of his hatred and rage. Gallica had believed him when he said he loved her rather than just the Dragonborn, but what did that mean when he had also shown himself more than willing to twist her feelings for him and turn them into a weapon he could use to bend her to his will?

The abduction attempt was the last straw. She could not stop herself from loving Ulfric, but she could stop pretending that the image of him she had created in her mind because she loved him was what he was truly like. If she could, she would save his life, because he had once told her he trusted her with it and because she felt she owed him that.

What happened beyond that, only time would tell.

~~0~~

The sun had reappeared, dazzling over the melting ice, as Gallica lay perched on a ledge that overlooked the northern road. She had not returned to the Nightgate Inn, choosing instead to find a place nearby from where she could see the courier coming from any direction. The innkeeper would get his reckoning one day, but now was not the time for petty vengeance. She waited, calmly, until she saw a slim figure trotting up the road, its mottled blue and grey attire resolving itself into a Stormcloak uniform as it approached. She chose one of the arrows, already carefully dipped in the resinous paralysis toxin she had prepared, and fitted it onto her bow. If her aim was good, the poison would be unnecessary, but she didn't like to take chances.

She waited until the courier was well within range before she drew the arrow back and sighted along its length, calculating for movement, windspeed and distance. As she loosed the deadly projectile, she reached for another, just in case, but the dart had struck home. The Stormcloak dropped in the road like a stone, without even a sound. Gallica slung her bow over her shoulder, gathered the arrows, and picked her way back down the slope and over to the dead courier - a woman from the shape of the body under its armor. The arrow had driven through the rusty chainmail and directly through the messengers heart. In all likelihood, the courier had been dead before she had hit the ground.

Grimly, Gallica collected the pouch and opened it. There were several documents inside, and she would let Rikke sort them out when she returned to the camp. A thought struck her and she squatted, gently removing the Stormcloak's helmet. A shock of mussed blonde hair in a short braid coiled out, and the face that stared up at her contained glassy blue eyes that were no less wide and frightened looking in death than they had been when Gallica had last seen them at the inn. She reached down and closed the dead girl's eyes and sighed deeply. The world was a cruel place. A life could be spared, then revoked just as easily, and you could drive yourself mad asking why. The best you could hope for was that one day the scales would balance out.

She drug the girl off of the road and tucked her into a crevice in the rocky face, piling more rocks over the entrance to keep wolves out. Taking the girl's sword, she wedged it carefully into the stone cairn and hung the Stormcloak helm on the hilt. It would be visible from the road, so perhaps a patrol or another traveler would find the corpse and report the courier's death. Gallica knew all too well what it was like not to know what had happened to the body of a loved one, wondering if maybe the reports were wrong and they were just lost out there in the world somewhere. If the dead girl had a family, Gallica would not wish that pain and uncertainty on them.

Hiking back along the shale scrabble hills, she found her horse and set off back for the Imperial camp in a subdued mood. There was a battle to be fought soon and Rikke's plan would probably save a few lives on both sides when it was all said and done. It was that ethical calculus that let Gallica, and all the other soldiers who could imagine the faces of people they knew in the opposing ranks, keep on going.


	15. Duty Waits for No One

The battle for Fort Dunstad was almost disappointing in its brevity. Daunted by the weather and recent defeats and denied needed supplies and reinforcements through Rikke's subterfuge, the majority of the fort's defenders that were not killed in the main assault either surrendered or fled. Many were injured or ill to begin with and almost all were suffering from the beginning stages of malnutrition. Much of their supplies appeared to have gone to the troop surge before Whiterun, as had their healer. Even their commander was barely able to stand for long enough to deliver his formal surrender, having fallen gravely ill with fever from an infected wound some days before.

Those who had fled would find no shelter in Dawnstar, though. While Rikke's soldiers attacked the fort, Legate Tituleius and his legion had marched on the hold itself. By all reports, the takeover had been nearly bloodless. Jarl Skald had too serrated and belligerent a personality to be well-loved among his own people and there were too few men and women of fighting ability left in the town to mount a decent defense anyway after multiple waves of Stormcloak recruitment. In the end, a local retired Legion officer named Brina Merilis was installed as Jarl in the White Hall.  A turn of events that seemed to suit Rikke just fine.

"She's a good woman," the legate told Gallica as they went through the reports. "I doubt Ulfric will be able to push troops through Winterhold to retaliate soon, but I'd put good money on Merilis to give them a fight they wouldn't easily forget."

"And Skald?"

Rikke snorted, derisively.

"No sense in keeping him around as a hostage. He's no use to the Stormcloaks without Dawnstar behind him, unless he wants to take up a sword himself. Can't think of anyone else that would want him and it would be a waste of time at this point to transport him back to Solitude's gaol.  He is - well, was - a Jarl, though, and entitled to some considerations under the rules of engagement.  So Tituleius will send word down to Windhelm to arrange safe escort. He was Ulfric's biggest supporter. Let Ulfric figure out what to do with him."

Gallica nodded. In a way, she felt sorry for the deposed Jarl. He might be an irascible old bastard, but having your life swept completely out from under you was not an easy thing for anyone to contend with.

"As for the prisoners here," Rikke continued, "the garrison will keep the survivors in hand for now.  Normally, I'd send for a headsman, make a few examples of the most troublesome men to prevent the rest from getting any ideas - but this lot looks like they've had the fight taken out of them pretty thoroughly already. I think the mission would be better served through mercy than the axe for now."

"I agree," Gallica responded, nodding her relief.  

The captured soldiers were, technically, traitors to the Empire.  Rikke was well within her rights to put them to the axe for that.  But this was a peasant army, for the most part.  They had suffered the most under the Thalmor and the White-Gold Concordat.  They were desperate and their war was an act of desperation.  It would be wrong to punish them for kicking against the source of their suffering when there were bigger fish to fry out there.  Gallica was pleased to see that she and Rikke were of the same mind on the subject.

The Legate paused over her map, considering, and then looked up at Gallica.

"I'm going to stay on hand in Dawnstar to help set up the defense and make sure Merilis settles into her new title without too much opposition. I've got a feeling we won't be going far after we leave here. As for you, I'm sending you back to Solitude with the report. After some recent problems in the south, General Tullius was adamant about sensitive information being sent in safe hands. Yours are the safest I've got. I trust you'll take precautions to prevent another incident."

Gallica had told Rikke about the abduction attempt, though she had been careful with the details and had spun it as more of an opportunistic strike by a random Stormcloak patrol. If she was to have a prayer of getting Ulfric out of Imperial custody eventually, she needed her superiors to believe that all ties between her and Ulfric were permanently severed so that she could work beneath suspicion. She told herself that the lie was necessary, but it did not make her feel better about it.

"The weather's clear now. I'll ride straight through from Morthal."

"Do that," Rikke replied, and then added pointedly, "You're good, but don't get cocky. If one of those Stormcloaks had decided to slit your throat instead, you'd have an embarrassing story to tell up in Sovngarde and I'd be out a perfectly good second. I hate training new officers."

"I'll keep that in mind, ma'am," Gallica nodded, unable to keep from cracking a smile.

~~0~~

The mood in Castle Dour was decidedly subdued when Gallica arrived. The war room was empty except for Legate Adventus, who greeted her warmly.

"We heard about Dawnstar. That ought to put a knot in Ulfric's tail."  His smile became serious again. "You're here to report in to General Tullius, Quaestor?"

"Yes, sir."

"He's upstairs in his office. Word of warning, though. He's in a foul temper today. I'd be sure to mind my manners if I were you."

"Thank you, sir, I'll take that under advisement."

He nodded her off and she hurried up the stairs towards the office, wondering what she would find inside. She had only ever seen Tullius break with civility once - at Helgen - but everyone had their eruption point. It was none of her business, but at the same time Gallica was curious about what could rattle the normally taciturn general all the same. The chamber door was open and Gallica could see Tullius seated at the writing desk as she approached, his brow knit in a frown of concentration. He gripped the quill so tightly that she could hear the scratching of the nib on parchment from the doorway.

"Reporting in, sir," she began, knocking briefly to alert him to her presence.

"Now what?" he growled, irritably, looking up. As his eyes lit on her, Tullius' peevish expression lifted slightly and his tone smoothed. "Gallica. Come in. Close the door behind you."

She did as she was bid and approached the desk, waiting while Tullius finished scrawling a final few sentences and sat back.  He tossed his quill down and sighed. Gallica couldn't help but note that the General looked more tired and harassed than angry, as if the long hours were catching up to him or he was not sleeping well. Probably both, she guessed, sympathetically.

"I trust that you, at least, have good news for me."

"If victory in the Pale is good news, sir, then I think you might be in luck," Gallica responded, smiling.

Her smile and tone seemed to infect him a little as he studied her.  She saw the lines on his face ease slightly, though there was still tension in his jaw and shoulders.  He gestured to a chair.

"So I hear. Have a seat. And you can hold the 'sir's."

"That would be insubordination." Gallica observed with mock serious, but it was a friendly jab.  She knew by watching Rikke that the General needed prodding to get him out of his bad mood.

Tullius' caught the humor in her voice and leaned in with a playfully sarcastic reply.

"I'll make it an order then. Will that do?"

He leaned back and stretched his shoulders, eyeing her as he breathed out deeply, trying to relax.

"It's been a difficult week and you're not some young newly-minted officer that needs reminding about how things are supposed to go.  By now, I think we can talk plainly when we're in private."

Gallica nodded her assent.  In an earlier time, and had the General been anyone else, she would have protested.  Her childhood had made her sensitive about receiving special consideration and the conformity and structure of the Legion was something of a balm after the ordeal of being the Dragonborn. However, she knew that this was not the same.  It was not an empty honor that Tullius was affording her. When she looked into his dark eyes, beneath the weariness and irritation, she could see the faintest specter of need and that filled her with compassion. She understood all too well what it was like to feel alone and overwhelmed, to be surrounded by people who needed you to be constantly strong and in charge, because she had been there herself.

"I think I can handle that."

"Good," he replied, business rising to the forefront again. "Tell me about Dawnstar."

She passed him Rikke's report, which he skimmed through while listening to her exegesis of the campaign. He frowned as he neared the end of the report.

"What's this about you being captured?"

Gallica winced internally. It was too much to have expected the incident to go unreported, but she had hoped that she would be out of the vicinity by the time the general read about it. She hated lying, and she found the prospect of concealing the truth from Tullius even more difficult and troublesome than she had with Rikke.

"I was caught in the storm.  A band of Stormcloaks decided to take advantage of the situation. They convinced the innkeeper at Nightgate to drug me. I dealt with them."

"Cowards. We'll see to it that the proprietor finds out what happens to people who poison Legion personnel, as well," he replied, scowling as he set the papers down. He studied her for a long moment, his expression serious before shaking his head. "I know that you're more than capable of taking care of yourself, so we'll skip the lecture. Just keep in mind that you're a high profile target now. Ulfric knows how important you are to the war effort.  If he can't get at you one way, then he'll try another.  You have to be more careful."

"I know. I'll keep a better watch on my company in future," Gallica agreed, with a show of penitence.

"Nothing is allowed to happen to you out there.  Remember that," he concluded. "I have enough on my plate as it is without losing one of the few sensible people I know up here."

"New developments?" she asked, curiously, to move them past the uncomfortable subject and the General glanced up at her, raising an eyebrow in assent.

"If it's not the damn Thalmor and their endless demands, it's our own people wasting my time. I'm not sure which aggravates me more." Tullius shook his head and then sighed deeply, rubbing the bridge of his nose and his eyes. "Speaking of which, I must apologize for not being on hand to see you off when last you were in town.  Adventus sent you my note?"

"He did. And I understand. Duty waits for no one."

"Would that this particular duty had waited," he replied, his lip curling with disgust.  

Something was clearly troubling him. Gallica wanted to ask what it was, to try to help him somehow, but she knew there were issues of security and she did not know how far it would be permissible to pry. Perhaps the general sensed what she was thinking, because he continued then, slowly, as if moving into difficult and unfamiliar territory.

"I know you've had to make some decisions with far reaching consequences yourself. Do you ever wonder how your decisions will be seen in ten or twenty years? Or a hundred?  What effects they'll have that you could never have predicted?"

The question brought back a flood of unpleasant memories.   _You have no idea_ , she wanted to tell him, but that might not be entirely true.

"Every day," Gallica confessed instead.  Since he had opened the door, she pressed, "Are you worried about the war?"

"No. At this point, the Stormcloaks have little chance of pulling together a successful defense in the eleventh hour. I know that what we're doing here is the only thing that can be done, and the best thing in the long run," Tullius answered, dismissively.  He frowned. "I have always been loyal to the Emperor and to the Empire. I follow my orders the same way that I expect any of my people to follow orders. At the same time, when I find myself enforcing decisions made by those before and above me that allow innocent citizens to suffer, I wonder how I'm supposed to turn a blind eye to it."

The depth of the vulnerability and trouble in his expression broke her heart with its familiarity.

"I've never been able to answer that question for myself, either," she replied quietly, and he nodded.  He looked up at her, his dark eyes searching hers.  There was less of the General in them now, and more of Tullius the man.  It was surprising - touching, even - to see it, but it concerned Gallica at the same time.  She held his gaze, waiting.

"I say this to you because I trust you. And also, because I think you understand as well as I do where the real threat in this war lies."

"The Thalmor," Gallica agreed, and Tullius grunted his assent.

"The White-Gold Concordat could not have been better designed to divide the Empire." His expression hardened bitterly. "Outlawing Talos worship was a tactical strike against Skyrim. That I am now obligated to assist the same enemies that I fought twenty-five years ago in their pointless witch-hunt and deliver up our own citizens for their torture hooks galls me to no end. The Stormcloaks are damned fools for not seeing what's really happening here, but it's hard to feel like we're completely in the right in this when I have to sign off on another round of inquisitions every month."

Tullius stood and paced a few steps around the room, agitated. Gallica considered the situation and then rose quietly, waiting as he gathered his thoughts.  This was difficult for him.  She wanted to help.  And she could help best by listening.

"This civil war is a ploy," the General said, finally, stopping in place without looking at her. "There are things I can't discuss, even with you, but I don't believe we're done fighting the Thalmor. And I have a feeling that the war that comes after this one is going to be worse than anything we've ever seen."

The mix of intensity and fatigue in his voice broke though her resolve to remain aloof.  Gallica crossed the room, moving around the desk to lay a hand on Tullius' shoulder. It was not something she ever would have attempted with anyone above or below her in the chain of command before, but the conversation had moved beyond the constraints of their working lives.  He needed that from her and Gallica could not find it within herself to pull back from that need.  The carefully formed steel and leather of his pauldron was cool under her palm, but he reacted as if she had touched flesh - an intake of breath, the skin at the back of his neck prickling with goosebumps, the shift of his body as his muscles contracted and then relaxed.

He did not pull away.  He seemed to lean into the touch ever so slightly, a realization which provoked a complex and powerful range of emotions in Gallica as she began to understand the depth of the need. Carefully, she gathered her words.

"You are doing the right thing," she told him, because it was what she had needed to hear under similar circumstances and because she believed it.  She squeezed his shoulder gently.  "You are doing the only thing that you can do.  War is sacrifice.  Some people have to die in order to protect the whole.  You will win this war. Whatever enemies arise afterwards, we will defeat them also. The gods will never abandon the Empire. Have faith."

Tullius was silent for a long moment.  He turned his head slightly as if listening and then, to Gallica's surprise, reached up and put a hand over hers. The gesture of unexpected intimacy, the feel of his skin against hers was electric.  She felt rooted the spot as Tullius turned, her hand still clasped in his, and speechless.  His expression when he looked into her eyes was entirely opened and Gallica could only stare at him, transfixed.

The General opened his mouth to speak, but before he could begin there was a knock at the door.

The room was silent.  The knock sounded again.  Tullius' shoulders sagged and he sighed from between gritted teeth.  He tilted his head back and glared up at the ceiling as if sending a " _why now?"_ up to the Divines.

But duty could not wait.

"Who is it?" he called, gruffly.

Gallica stepped back, feeling both extraordinarily embarrassed and desperately confused. She was blushing so fiercely that she felt like her face might catch on fire at any moment, but she quickly tried to regain her composure, adjusting her posture and turning away as if they had been studying a map pinned up onto the nearby wall.

"Adventus, sir," the muffled voice said from the other side of the door. "You asked to be notified immediately when the reports came in from the Reach."

Tullius paused for a long moment, and she could almost hear him grinding his teeth.

"Come in."

Gallica heard the door open behind her, but she did not look.  She stared resolutely at the map, trying her best to give the impression that nothing strange was going on at all. She heard the rustle of armor and paper behind her, and then a pause, before Tullius finally cleared his throat.

"That will be all for now, Quaestor. Dismissed."

Gallica turned, saluting, and made her way quickly out of the office. She waited until she was down the stairs and out in the frosty air of the castle yard before she allowed herself to take a deep breath and exhale it sharply, raising her palms to her eyes. Oblivious of the odd looks from the door guards, she starting off at a fast clip towards her house, where hopefully Jordis had managed to stock the larder and there would be a stiff drink waiting on her.

~~0~~

The summons arrived early the following morning and it was with some trepidation that Gallica went back up to Castle Dour. Over the intervening hours, she had managed to convince herself that she had entirely misinterpreted the events of her meeting with Tullius.  She had behaved too casually.  She shouldn't have touched him.  She was seeing things, to imagine that he had wanted that.  There was no way now that it could not put a permanent strain on both their friendship and working relationship all at once. Even worse, if possible, was the tidal wave of conflicting emotions that had hit her during and in the wake of the incident - the intense awareness of her own physical response to his touch, the sudden upsurge of feelings she had not even realized were there.

No, no, no.  She had loved Ulfric.  She  _still_ loved Ulfric.  And yet, the look in Tullius' eyes and the pressure of his fingers against hers had rattled her, as if she were being unfaithful somehow.  She had wanted to comfort a friend, but when Tullius had looked at her there in his study with her hand over hers, it was if the world had stopped spinning.

More than a month had passed since she had left Ulfric.  It would be impossible to repair the rift between them now.  After the failed kidnapping attempt, after everything that had happened since she had left Windhelm, Gallica was not sure that she would even want to resume the relationship even if it were somehow possible.  All she wanted now was Ulfric alive.  No one would fault her if she cut her losses and moved on.  But, somehow, she couldn't.  

And, Gallica thought, she must be losing her mind entirely to imagine that there had been anything - that there _could_ be anything - between her and Tullius.  Thinking back on the encounter made her flush and cringe.  But she could not refuse a summons.  And she owed him an apology.

She found Tullius in the war-room, engaged in what appeared to be a very serious discussion with Legate Adventus and a few other officers that she did not recognize. When he saw her, he excused himself and walked over. He was not smiling, and Gallica felt her heart catch in her throat.

"Reporting as ordered, sir," she managed to say, despite the sudden dryness in her mouth.

His expression softened, slightly, and he glanced briefly back at the others.

"Let's take a walk, I could do with some fresh air."

She followed him out into courtyard, lit by the cold, grey light of dawn rising over the walls. He waited until they were far enough away from the door guards to speak.

"There's been a change of plans," he began, his eyes trained thoughtfully ahead of him as they strolled along the wall. "Markarth can't wait any longer. I'm redirecting forces there to intercept the threat now. I've already sent a rider up to Rikke.  She won't arrive in enough time to lead the initial assault.  In her absence, I need you down there to help with the preparation as soon as possible."

"Of course, sir," Gallica replied, surprised.

"I'm promoting you to Praefect effective immediately and assigning you a detail of triarii. They should be assembling here in the courtyard shortly. You'll need to report in to Legate Admand at the staging camp northeast of Markarth. Rikke should be along once she's had a chance to mobilize. I have a packet of intelligence for you to deliver as well."  The General stopped and looked at her, gravely. "It's time to stop pussyfooting around the rebel holds. As soon as Markarth is regained, you'll be heading directly to Winterhold for a repeat performance. I want this fight over with before the northern ports thaw, and I don't want to give Eastmarch time to shore up Windhelm. The sooner we finish this, the better."

"By your orders, sir," Gallica confirmed, saluting.

"And about yesterday," he began.  Gallica felt the heat rising in her face again and she looked away.

"I was out of line, sir.  I'm--"

"No, no.  Quite the contrary," he interrupted, and she was surprised to see him smile faintly. "In fact, I believe you've clarified a few matters for me. We will discuss it further later.  It will have to wait until you get back. Until then, be safe, Praefect. As I said previously, you're too important for anything to happen to you.  Don't disappoint me."

"Yes, sir."

With a last smile, Tullius turned back toward the keep. Gallica watched him leave, a mixture of the same confusing emotions, guilt, and relief swirling through her mind, and then she shook her bring herself back to the present. There was a lot to be done if she was going to march out today, and she could see the first of the triarii assembling in the training yard already. Breaking into a jog, she hurried back to the manor to collect her gear. There would be time to continue flogging herself over her feelings later.

Duty waited for no one.


	16. At the Eleventh Hour

The daylight hours waned down into the cold darkness of midwinter, even as the conflict in Skyrim drew closer to a head. The Reach had been more difficult to recover than anyone in the Legion could have predicted. Though they were cut off from reinforcements, the Stormcloak force that had taken over Markarth and the surrounding lands had dug themselves in, using the honeycomb of peaks, grottos, and caves that made up the region to their advantage. The Imperial troops were fighting an uphill battle against an enemy that seemed, at times, to melt away into the landscape itself. But the Legion had superior numbers and time in their favor. Finally, faced with the prospect of a siege and mounting popular unrest within the city itself, the Stormcloak Jarl had no choice but to surrender and Markarth was once again in Imperial hands, though losses on both sides had been considerable.

Midwinter found Gallica on the move, marching into the inhospitable tundra of Winterhold. How anyone managed to eke out an existence there was a mystery to Gallica, but the shattered hold was the last ally that Ulfric could call on to aid him in the war. The delay in the Reach had allowed troops from Eastmarch to shore up the defenses and conduct a series of raids on the Pale's boundaries, but it was more of a distraction than a serious attempt at defense. A barricade to give Eastmarch time to regroup before the final crisis.

"You've been promoted," Rikke remarked to Gallica, as she shuffled through the dispatches from Solitude that had finally caught up with them "Tribune. Congratulations."

Both women were wrapped in their thick wool Legion cloaks, huddling in the command tent over the planning table. They were far north enough now that the sun had not risen at all that day, and so there was little respite from the fierce cold. The braziers, at least, created a pocket of air in the tent that just slightly warmer than the temperature outside.

Gallica said nothing, only inclined her head in acknowledgement. She was exhausted after a full day of travel. She had been marching for days on end with little rest. Her men had already been seen to and dismissed for the evening and all she wanted to do was conclude business as soon as possible so that she could go wrap herself around a warm meal and find a place to sleep. There would be planning tomorrow. She doubted that the full assault was less than two or three days away, but intelligence would need to be gathered and considered. Battle tactics needed to be discussed.

After her assistance at Whiterun and the Reach, Rikke was relying more and more on Gallica's input when planning strategy. It was an honor for her opinions to be respected so highly, but that honor came at the price of her peace of mind. Gallica was always on task now, constantly churning through scenarios and possible complications. Even her sleep was full of sieges and troop movements, though not all the battlefields in her dreams seemed to be in Skyrim and some she thought she recognized as having been won or lost many years ago. In her darker moments - when she was bone tired, at the end of her endurance, and her mind was slow - a feeling would arrive, almost a presence, and she would know what needed to be done. She would muster the strength to do it.

 _I'm going mad_ , she often thought, but the dreams often came with flashes of insight that were invaluable on the battlefield. The presence that shrouded her was familiar, benign, seeming to watch over her. If this was madness, then it was a useful madness and she did not speak of it to anyone.

After a few more remarks about the reports and new orders from the capitol, Rikke dismissed her and Gallica stepped back out into the snow. The camp was overfull, some of the new arrivals still scurrying to put up tents and corral horses. There was no way that the Stormcloak army did not know exactly where they were with all of this racket and activity. Camp followers had come up from the Pale and Whiterun to see to the soldier's needs and she could smell food and hear laughter from elsewhere in the camp. As she picked her way towards the tents where she and her men would be quartered, a woman stepped in front of her, talking over her shoulder to a companion instead of looking where she was going. Her reflexes slow, Gallica bumped into her hard.

"Begging your pardon, soldier," the woman exclaimed, apologetically, with a weak smile. "Clumsy me. I should have been watching where I was going. No offense meant, of course."

"It's alright," Gallica replied brusquely, annoyed.

The woman bent down and picked something up.

"Oh, looks like you dropped this." She pressed the object into Gallica's hand before Gallica could protest and bowed obsequiously again. "My apologies, ma'am, won't happen again."

"Wait!" Gallica started, but the woman and her friend had disappeared into the morass of the camp again.

In the darkness, she had not been able to get a good look at the two of them and so there was no way to pick them out among the bodies that were coming and going among the tents. Looking down at the object she had been given, she found it was a tightly rolled slip of paper, bound with a bit of cloth cording in faded grey-blue. An odd warning prickle began in the back of her mind as she stepped over close enough to one of the torches to read in the dim light and she quickly unrolled the paper.

_Dragonborn. We need to talk. No tricks this time. I will be at the Tower Stone to the northeast at midnight._

Gallica's breath caught in her throat as if someone had kicked her hard in the gut. Quickly, she turned the paper over, turned it back and scanned the handwriting. She could not tell if it was Ulfric's writing between the bad light and the poor quality of the medium. But she could think of no one else that it could be.

She should not go. Every ounce of the soldier in her knew that she should turn around and deliver this to Rikke immediately. It was almost certainly a trap. Ulfric would not risk himself by being out here.

But.

What if it was real? What if Ulfric really was out there waiting for her?

Gallica crumpled the note and shoved it into the pouch at her belt. It was a few hours before midnight, perhaps. Plenty of time to make the trip to the Tower Stone. It would be easy enough to steal out of camp without anyone noticing. By the same token, she had already nearly been captured once when she was alone. It would be extremely foolish to walk straight into a trap after the last close call. Even if it was not a trap, if Ulfric really was there to talk, he would only try to convince her to join him again in a last blaze of glory. And she was not certain that she could bear that. And yet, what if that wasn't the reason? What if he knew it was hopeless and finally, finally wanted a way out?

 _This is stupid_ , Gallica argued with herself as she turned and strode towards the corrals, looking for her horse. _This is unequivocally the stupidest thing you will ever do and you will regret it. There is nothing about this that can end well_.

 _I don't care_ , her heart replied.

If there was a chance - even a small chance - that Ulfric had finally come to his senses, then she had to go.

~~0~~

Brilliant twists and snarls of blue and green light roped across the heavens as Gallica tethered her horse to a gnarled cedar tree. The dim outline of the standing stones was visible in the distance, jutting up like teeth against the eerie glow of sky and sea, and she patted the horse's neck once more for reassurance and started carefully towards her destination.

 _This is wrong, this is wrong, this is wrong_ , the drumbeat of her heart seemed to pound at her, but she kept on, moving slowly and carefully and watching for slightest indication of a trap.

Gallica heard the snort of another horse somewhere in the distance to the west and froze. There was a movement among the stones as a figure stood from where it had been leaning and looked around. Her blood seemed to freeze in her veins as she held her breath, eyes scanning for any other sources of movement. Was it him? She could not tell at this distance. When, after a few moments, she could detect no other movement in the area except for the light ocean breeze, she moved forward again, excited for and afraid of what she might find all at the same time.

Before the figure even stepped out from the shadows of the stones, she realized that it was not Ulfric and her heart sank in bitter disappointment. The stranger was too thickly built to be the man she had loved, but there was still a chance that he had been sent to assure that she had come and that Ulfric was nearby. When the man spoke, though, even that hope was shattered.

"Hrmph. I honestly didn't think you'd have the stones to show," a too familiar, growly voice said. It grated at her like the sound of a grinding wheel in need of oil. Galmar Stone-fist scowled back at her in the starlight, as if addressing her were just as unpleasant for him.

"What do you want? Where's Ulfric?" she breathed, almost as one sentence, and Galmar's scarred face wrinkled in a grimace that could have been disgust or amusement. Or both.

"He's not here. That's all you need to know right now," the old Nord replied flatly. He shook his grizzled head. "Enough chitchat. For some fool reason, Ulfric thinks you can be persuaded. I told him it was a waste of time, but he refused to believe it. So, here we are."

"Ulfric sent you here?" Gallica frowned.

"Ysmir's beard, woman, do you think I'd be out here on my own account?" the housecarl growled, and shook his head. "I'm here to tell you that if you want to crawl back to Windhelm and Ulfric, now's your chance. You go back, help fix your mess, and all is forgiven. By Ulfric, at least."

Gallica stared at him for a long moment, unsure of what she was hearing. Was it a trick? Was Ulfric seriously offering to let her return, carte blanche, with his plans almost entirely in ruins around him? Because he loved her or because he thought she could pull his irons out of the fire in the war or some strange fusion of both? She wished Ulfric had come himself, if he wanted her back. The answers she needed were the ones only he could give her.

"Why?" Gallica asked, and then corrected it to, "Why now?"

Galmar's lip curled, looking away from her with a tight, disgruntled expression.

"You already know the reason. And if you don't, then that just goes to show I was right about you from the beginning."

The simplicity of the statement stung her to the very core. Ulfric was still in love with her. He wanted her back. Even now, after everything, he wanted her back. She felt the blood drain out of her face as her heart pounded. Gallica's fists clenching so hard in an effort to keep herself focused that she could feel the nails pressing like knifepoints into the flesh of her palms.

She could not go back. Not now. Not even if he loved her. Something had broken irreparably between them on that last night in Windhelm. And she had chosen her vows and her duty to the Empire and it's future over love. There was no going back on that decision at this late hour. But, even so, the time in which she might save Ulfric from himself was coming rapidly to a close and she was still lacking a plan.

But Galmar - if Ulfric would listen to anyone, it would be him. Gallica drew a deep breath.

"Galmar, listen to me," she began seriously, and shook her head to stop him before he could bite back with an interruption. The tone in her voice seemed to stop him as much as the gesture, and he gazed at her mistrustfully. "I know we've had our differences, but there's one thing we both care about and that's Ulfric. Whatever you believe of me, believe that, too. You know this war is already over. You know there's only one way this can end if it goes through to the natural conclusion. I can't fight for him, but I don't want him to die. He'll listen to you. You have to convince him to leave Skyrim. Get him out while you still can."

The only sound for a moment was the wind and the nearby rush and flow of the sea. The housecarl seemed taken aback by her words, but at last his expression hardened again and he scowled bitterly.

"You women, you're all alike," he began, with a humorless chuckle. He shook his head, and Gallica - recalling her conversation with Rikke - began to realize why the Stormcloak general had distrusted her all this time. "Everything's always a fight. Everything has to be difficult. You're never easy with what you've got. If you're coming with me, get your horse and let's go. If not, then go back to your Legion and Talos grant it be my axe that sends you to Oblivion."

Gallica felt her shoulders sag slightly, knowing that Galmar would be of no help to her. Like Ulfric, he was too far gone. He would stand beside Ulfric until the bitter end. And they would both die.

One part of her told her that she could go to Ulfric now and convince him to leave herself. If he still loved her, then maybe she could prevail upon him and it would be cleaner and easier than trying to slip him out of Imperial custody later. It was a long shot, but maybe. Even as those thoughts entered her mind, she was aware of how deeply they hurt. She had never deserted a post before. In the middle of a war, it was cowardly. Ultimate dishonor. And, as her father had told her what seemed like too many years ago now, honor was the only thing that anyone ever truly possessed. Without honor, what was the point?

And then, there was Tullius. She had never really let herself consider the far-reaching implications of her plan before, but now she could imagine the look on Tullius' face when he received the news - either that she had absconded with Ulfric or that she had been captured or killed as an insurrectionist traitor - and it filled her with shame. He had trusted her when she would not have trusted herself. He had had faith that her better nature would win out, but he had let it be her choice in the end. Her feelings for him of late were complicated, Gallica didn't understand them and she was ashamed to even admit they were there, but was she actually going to prove him wrong, now, after everything they had been through?

 _No_ , she decided, grimly, sadly. _This far, but no further_.

"Will you take a message to Ulfric, at least?" Gallica asked, numbly. Galmar's scowl deepened, but inclined his head briefly in assent. Drawing a deep breath, she pulled off her glove and removed Ulfric's ring from her finger. Giving it up felt like severing a part of her own body, but she held it out to Galmar. "Tell him I love him, but there are things I can't do. Tell him I will try to save him, if I can. Will you do that?"

The housecarl took the ring, his expression unchanged, and he nodded.

"Fine."

She stepped back and turned to go. Galmar called after her, roughly, as she crunched away through the snow.

"Don't dawdle on your way to Windhelm, Dragonborn. I'm looking forward to mounting your head on the gates personally. You and that Imperial milkdrinker general. Tell _him_ I said that."

Gallica said nothing. She kept walking until she reached her horse and then she rode back to camp as fast as she dared in the darkness.

A few days later, when she and Hadvar led the force that overwhelmed Fort Kastav, clearing the last obstacle between the Legion and Winterhold, she spotted a man in a bear-skin helm riding at breakneck speed away from the fort with a small gaggle of survivors. Gallica ordered her men from the pursuit. She knew that she might have to kill Galmar one day soon - or perhaps it would be the other way around - but for now she knew he would fall back to Windhelm and that he would protect Ulfric with his life.

For what was soon to come, someone would have to.


	17. The Beginning of the The End

The final assault on Eastmarch would have to come from the Rift. The mountains to the northeast of Whiterun formed too much of a barrier and the frigid, rocky coastal plain of Winterhold was too treacherous to move a large number of troops through quickly. The temperate birch forests to the north of Riften, though, were ideal and it was there that Rikke directed her Legion, joining the small Imperial camp nestled within spitting distance of Eastmarch's border.

"You're the first to arrive," Legate Hrollod, the camp commander, explained as Rikke and Gallica clustered around the planning table. "We're expecting the legion from Falkreath at any moment, and a rider from Solitude arrived this morning. General Tullius himself and the Solitude legions should be here in three days."

"That's 20,000 men," Rikke replied, approvingly. "The Whiterun garrison and Morthal are providing the troops for the northern offensive. That makes close to 35,000 all told. With the losses Ulfric's taken, and the number of prisoners we've got in the camps, I'd like to see him put up a fourth of that in able bodied fighters."

"The scouts report that, aside from the area around Fort Amol, the countryside has pretty much been abandoned by the rebels," Hrollod mused, tapping the fort's location on the map. "The bulk of the Stormcloaks have holed up in Windhelm already. Rough country, though, and Ulfric's well-liked among the farm yokels. The ones that haven't already taken up an axe for him by now will take up their pitchforks once the Legion rolls in."

"That fort would make a perfect staging point for the siege on Windhelm," Gallica suggested, and Rikke nodded. "There's high ground and a clear corridor close to there for the catapults. And taking the fort would provide protection from local raids. I don't foresee many farmers being brazen enough to stage a full out assault against stone walls and archers. The less we destroy now, the more quickly things will settle back down once the war is over. If the farmers already feel disgruntled towards the Empire, burning down their farmsteads won't win us any friends."

"True enough," Rikke said, frowning in concentration. "This valley won't sustain the full troop surge for long. Falkreath will need time to get their catapults through the Rift, and the Solitude heavies are slow marchers. Three days sounds like a low estimate. Might as well see what we can do about this Fort Amol while we're waiting. If the General is lucky, he'll be able to sleep inside proper stone walls when he gets here."

~~0~~

General Tullius would indeed be lucky. As Rikke had predicted, the Solitude legions did not arrive until five days later, which was plenty of time for scouts to report back and for Gallica to take a cohort and route the remaining Stormcloaks from the fort. By the time the Imperial dragon standard was visible on the horizon, shining like a golden beacon in the late afternoon sun, Rikke's legion had moved into their new garrison and repairs and preparations for a long-term camp in the surrounding area were underway.

"I'm not sure what I should think when I arrive to find that my officers have things so firmly in hand already. It makes a general feel rather superfluous." Tullius remarked with mock severity, as Rikke led him and two other legates from Solitude whose names Gallica could not recall on inspection through the fort.

Gallica followed behind, listening quietly, and stopped as Tullius halted to survey the crumbling stone fortifications around him. Rikke's expression was as tight as a drum and Gallica wondered if the legate had caught the joke yet. It was obvious to Gallica that Tullius was pleased, but she knew he enjoyed tormenting his serious chief officer. He cast a conspiratorial wink back at Gallica as he harrumphed.

"I suppose it just goes to demonstrate my skill as a commander."

"Of course, sir," Rikke replied, moving on quickly. "Legate Hrollod has the scout reports from Windhelm inside if you'd like to review them."

Gallica let her mind drift as she followed the others into the keep to where the new war-room had been set up. She had heard the new intelligence a dozen times by now and it was the first time that she had seen Tullius in a more than a month. He seemed to be in good health and in better spirits than she had seen him in awhile. Well, they were on the doorstep of victory, she supposed. Everyone was energized with the prospect of an end to the fighting. Gallica didn't know what to make of the wash of relief she felt when she saw him, just that it made her feel slightly better about what was coming while simultaneously inspiring a mounting sense of anxiety as she remember the particulars of her last visit to Solitude.  The feeling of his hand clasped around hers . . .

"Rikke's reports indicate that you've been an invaluable asset, Tribune. Both on the field and at the planning table. I've heard the same from others under my command." Tullius said, snapping Gallica back to the present.

"Thank you, sir."

The victories in the Reach and in Winterhold had earned her a promotion to Tribune - the rank that she had held before she had last left the Legion.  It was a surreal feeling to be back where she had started out.  But something was afoot.  She caught a knowing smile from Rikke before the Legate's stolid expression returned.

"She's the most competent officer I've had in my command, sir," Rikke agreed, "Dragonborn aside. My only complaint is that I don't have a dozen more like her."

Tullius nodded and then smiled, his dark eyes meeting Gallica's with a warm expression.  She blushed, and her embarrassment at the blush only made it worse.

"Since we've come to rely on you so heavily, then, and since your service to the Empire thus far has been exemplary in every way," the General told her, "I think it's only fitting that we welcome you into the upper echelon of the Legion. Rikke will just have to promote a new junior officer. Congratulations, Legate."

Gallica's heart began to pound as she stared at him in surprise. This was what she had dreamed about all of those years ago when she had first taken the oath as an idealistic sixteen year old recruit. It was what she had dreaded after a decade of service.  It had come sooner than she had thought, but whatever acceleration being the Dragonborn had put on her career, Gallica knew that she had earned this one fairly. Tullius was a friend, but Rikke would not have recommended the promotion if she had not been convinced of Gallica's merit.

"I'm honored, sir," Gallica replied, formally, unable to keep the smile off of her face.

"Don't think this means your job is about to get easier, either. I want that city, and I expect you -" Tullius rapped out before turning to the other gathered Legates, "all of you -  to help me get it. Yesterday, if possible. Now, since the niceties are out of the way, let's get down to business."

~~0~~

The next few days were a frantic blur of activity. The catapults arrived from Falkreath and had to be moved into defensible positions. By now, Windhelm was well aware of the Imperial troops closing in around them. The walls fairly bristled with archers and the scouts reported that the stables and surrounding farms had been evacuated. An oppressive silence fell over the landscape. Even the wildlife seemed to have moved on as the forward lines swelled with soldiers, waiting for the orders to move on the city. Gallica spent what seemed like every waking hour pouring over maps, surveying the battlefield, consulting with the other legates and commanders, and following General Tullius as he surveyed the troops. A large percentage of the Legion here were Skyrim-born Nords. It was important for them to see the Dragonborn, their hero, standing behind the Empire and Gallica did her best not disappoint. Whatever misgivings still ran through her mind, she kept them to herself. The time for questions had long since passed.

Finally, the eve of battle was upon them. Everything was in place. The city was surrounded on all sides and there was no escape for the denizens of Windhelm now.

"We'll do this by the book," Tullius had told the legates as they clustered around the planning table under the smoky light of the torches. "I'll give Ulfric's people one last chance to come to their senses and surrender. Once the ram has touched the gates, though, no quarter will be given to anyone holding a weapon inside Windhelm. Not a soul leaves that city until we have Ulfric Stormcloak in custody."

Afterwards, the legates dispersed to deliver final orders and stoke the readiness of the men under their command. Gallica, too recently promoted to have been given a specific command yet, walked the battlements of the fort and looked out over the sea of fires and torches that stretched down the river valley towards Windhelm. Ulfric was there somewhere beyond those fires and within the dark city walls. She wondered what he was thinking tonight, whether he was up there on the ramparts of the city looking back out at her, and then she tried not to think about it. She had made her decision about Ulfric.  As much as she hurt for it, she knew that it was the right decision.

She had turned over plan after plan to get him away and out of the city before he could be locked down in a prison somewhere or executed.  She had approached the Thieves' Guild.  They had specialists that could help break Ulfric out of the prison.  Their price was high, but Gallica had accumulated considerable wealth throughout her travels and she had little enough to spend it on for herself.  There was no amount of mere coin that she would not give up to buy Ulfric's life.  Once he was free, she knew a loyal Nord ship's captain that would ferry him to Solstheim.  From there, they would be on their own.  

Gallica had pondered these things, had rolled every possible outcome through her mind on the cold nights in Winterhold, but there was no permutation of the situation that she was certain would actually work. Ulfric's face was too well-known.  The Thieves' Guild could easily turn around and sell him back to the Imperials, along with her as a traitor.  They could be captured.  And even if everything went perfectly, even if Ulfric were free and Gallica's interference unknown, Tullius would not rest until he got to the bottom of the escape.  The finger of suspicion would have to fall somewhere. Someone's head would have to roll for that offense, and if it was not hers then it would be some innocent. She was not willing to trade one person's life for another.  That was the only price too steep to pay for Ulfric.

No, Gallica knew that if she were going to go this route, she would have to abandon her life and go with him. The blame would fall on the proper shoulders then at least and she would be beyond the immediate reach of the Empire, but what would come afterwards? She would be a traitor.  She would be an exile with a man that she could not be with, but whom she could not cease loving.  And she had no doubt that Ulfric would hate her for what she had done to him.  She could have won his war for him.  Instead, she had contributed to the loss of everything he had worked for. And what of the people who had trusted her? Tullius, Rikke, the loyalist Nords who still looked to a Dragonborn for guidance?  The image of Tullius' face upon learning of her treachery suffused her with shame.

Gallica mused over the problem as returned to the long barracks room where the officers slept and stowed her armor carefully away, checking it over one last time though she had oiled and cleaned it earlier. Alone, she took down her braid and shook out her long honey-colored hair, wild and coarse from weeks out in the field, and was about to lay back on her rough cot to rest awhile when there was a knock at the door. Sighing, she stood and opened it to find a young Nord soldier standing there.

"I - ah -" he spluttered, surprised, and then blushed from his hairline to his neck. He stood up straight, looking at her as reverently as if he were addressing the Emperor. "Ma'am. General Tullius sent me to find you. He's in his quarters."

Gallica smiled, fighting to contain her amusement at the younger man's obvious reverence.

"Thank you, soldier. Carry on."  

The young man saluted rather clumsily and hurried away. Gallica glanced down at her armor critically, and then decided that Tullius would understand if she was out of uniform. It was too late in the night now to worry about putting it all back on, and she was technically as off duty as one could be before a battle. She raked her fingers through her hair quickly, washed her face, and stepped out into the chilly hallway.

Tullius answered the door at the second knock.  He paused for a brief moment as his eyes took her in, but quickly stepped back to allow Gallica in.

"Good, I thought you might still be close at hand," he began, closing the door behind her.

The chamber had belonged to the late Stormcloak commander and it was relatively spacious though only slightly more furnished than the common barracks space. Gallica could see Tullius' armor laid out neatly nearby, his sword propped against the wall in easy reach of the bed, and that made her relax slightly. Every legionnaire picked up the habit of keeping a weapon close at hand, even when asleep. Most carried that with them ever after and it was somewhat comforting to see that even Tullius had never quite lost the habit.

He picked up a bottle from a nearby chest of drawers, glancing back at her.  There was something different in his manner tonight.  A slight hesitance.  A sort of determined focus that Gallica had not seen before.  She chalked it up to the impending battle.  Everyone, from a general right down to the lowest recruit, had a right to their misgivings the night before a battle.

"I thought a stiff drink might be order, if you're not otherwise occupied. I've been saving a bottle of brandy for the victory, but it's my experience that it goes down a lot better the night before."

At Gallica's nod, the General poured the fine, amber-colored liquid into two cups. He brought one to her with as much grace as if she were merely visiting him in some study or salon back in the Imperial City.

"Hazard of rank, you see," Tullius explained, humorously.  "The legates are off seeing to their people, as they should be, and I find that I'm left to my own devices. You'd do me a kindness by saving me from the deplorable state of drinking alone."

"If it's for a noble cause, how can I refuse?" she replied, accepting the cup with a smile of her own.

He raised his own in toast and then tossed it back.  Gallica sipped her own and tasted the fiery flavor of the drink as it burned down her throat. She had sworn off strong liquors after the incident at Nightgate Inn, but she doubted this batch was drugged.  And she could make an exception on a night like tonight.

It felt strange to be alone with Tullius again. With the treasonous plots that had consumed her mind since she had spoken with Galmar and the awkward memory of her last visit to Solitude, Gallica could scarcely look him in the eye, afraid that he would be able to read her like a book. Perhaps he sensed her reticence, because his expression changed, becoming more serious, and waved her to the more comfortable chair and sat down on the edge of the bed himself.

"Are you nervous about tomorrow?" he asked, probing cautiously. Gallica made a noncommittal gesture with her shoulders, but she knew that a response like that would not satisfy.  She sighed.

"Yes, I suppose I am."

"Very sensible. Anyone who says he isn't nervous before a battle is a liar or a madman." Tullius grunted his agreement and refilled both of their cups. "But, we're as prepared as we're going to be. Anything that crops up now that we haven't already planned on we will just have to sort out as it arises.  Besides, I realized the other day that I haven't lost a battle since you re-enlisted. It seems that you're my lucky charm."

Gallica smiled a weak half-smile and sipped her drink to keep from having to meet his gaze. It was hard to keep secrets and wrestle down the throng of conflicting feelings he evoked in her when he was looking at her like he was now.  The General had his stoic public face, but that fell from him in the rare moments that they were alone together.  His features relaxed and opened.  The dark eyes that lit on her softened.  The warmth in his tone only made it worse.

She felt as if she were going to unravel at the seams under that gaze.  All of the pain, all of the intrigue, could come spilling out of her at any moment.  And more, besides.  She had thought that the low-grade, ever-present ache in her heart that had haunted her ever since she had left for the Reach was all due to Ulfric.  But, Gallica now realized, that was only a part of it.  The rest:  she had left things unfinished with Tullius.  And she had missed him.

"Will you return to Cyrodiil after the war is over?" Gallica asked to pull the conversation away from herself, not trusting her voice to obey her reason if they continued along the previous track.

"No," Tullius replied and then sighed deeply as he gazed into his cup. "No, I think Skyrim is going to be my home for quite a few years to come.  Even after we deal with Ulfric, there will be Stormcloaks out there who will continue fighting on regardless.  Elisif will need the Legion's assistance to maintain order, and I suspect we haven't heard the last from the Thalmor here. We'll keep that between just the two of us, though."  He shrugged.  "I've had worse posts. I don't think I'll ever understand these damned Nords, but I've come to respect them. For all their idiosyncrasies, a people who value honor as highly as they do can't be all bad. Can't say the same for their weather, though."

He looked back up at her and she detected a shift in expression as if there was something he wanted to say, but could not quite find a way to insert it into the conversation.

"And yourself? I know that you only made the trip to Skyrim to sort out your brother's affairs. Have you thought much of what you'll do after things have settled down?"

Gallica flinched slightly. Of course she had. When she was not engaged in planning for this battle, she had thought of practically nothing else, and she was no closer to a solution than she had been when she began.

"I've thought about it a great deal, but I've made no decisions.  I suppose it will depend on what happens after tomorrow."

"The Legion would be more than happy to keep you on," he ventured and hesitated before continuing. "I understand that you have family property in Cyrodiil that needs attending to, and a transfer can no doubt be arranged, but I wonder if you would consider staying on in Skyrim instead. Divines know I could use the help and you could make a bigger difference out here than back in the Imperial City."

Gallica looked up at him then, at the earnestness in his gaze, and felt a racing, trembling feeling begin in her chest. Did he know that she was considering abandoning the Legion to leave with Ulfric? That was ridiculous. She had said nothing to anyone about her thoughts or her plans. And the giddy feeling, tinged now with fear, that she had experienced back in his office in Castle Dour all those weeks ago was beginning to creep maddeningly up on her again the longer she looked into his eyes.

"There's nothing for me back in Cyrodiil," Gallica replied, and realized with weary sadness that it was true as she said it.

She was the last of her family living. Aside from a few scattered, distant relatives, she was alone and the estate that had been her grandfather's and her mother's afterwards, and which was now hers, was too full of ghosts to feel like the home it had once been.  She sipped her brandy, and sighed.

"I've come to like Skyrim. I had planned to disappear here after burying my brother, but now disappearance seems unlikely anywhere.  What does a Dragonborn do after she's served her purpose? The stories never talk about that part - what happens after."

Tullius studied her for a long moment before replying.  He nodded.

"You make a life for yourself afterward. You find happiness on your own terms afterwards." He paused, considering, and then seemed to make up his mind about something.  He smiled at her. "I've been putting it off for too long myself, but you've inspired me.  No longer. Life is too short. I want a wife.  A family of my own. It's a late start, perhaps, but late is better than never.  Now that I've finally found the woman I want, it's time. If she'll have me."

Gallica forced a smile, though she felt something deep inside of her begin to sink painfully.  She was happy for Tullius, even so.  He had found someone.  Rikke was a respectable choice.  It was an unconventional match, but if would hardly come as a surprise to anyone.  If Rikke was agreeable, then she would pleased to see two people whom she respected and liked find happiness with each other.  But she could not help but feel a deep chord of sadness all the same.  She had tried to find that with Ulfric, and failed.  If she had never allowed Ulfric that foothold in her heart, perhaps she could have made something out of these odd, guilty feelings that she had begun to develop for Tullius.  Perhaps it was just as well, considering.

"Good," Gallica replied, finally, nodding. "I'm happy for you both.  You should talk to her.  I know you two work closely together, but I think she'll be flattered."

Tullius blinked at her for a moment as if he didn't quite understand what she meant.

"Who?"

"Rikke," Gallica replied, perplexed, as if this was evident.  

Tullius stared at her in surprise for an instant and then began to laugh.

"Did you think I was talking about Rikke all this time?" he finally managed to respond.  He shook his head, smiling at her with amusement.  "No. Rikke is a fine woman.  We work well together. But I was talking about you."

The silence that followed howled around Gallica like the wind on the ice sheets on the sea of ghosts.  She gaped.  Her mind refused to engage, refused to accept what she was hearing.

It was too much.  The stress of the upcoming battle, the guilt of hiding her intent regarding Ulfric, the difficulty of the decisions that faced her, and now the conflicted, confounding feelings that Tullius aroused in her whenever she was near him.  To hear the very thing echoed back at her that she had never allowed herself to imagine was real - to hear the very thing that had weighted her down with guilt all these last few weeks repeated back to her in earnest was like a physical blow.  The world spun.

She stood, unsteadily, turning away.  Her hand clenched over her mouth reflexively as her eyes closed, holding back the tide of feelings that threatened to burst from her like a dam under a spring flood.

A hand fell on her shoulder and Gallica turned her head, jerking out of the gridlock of her mind, to see Tullius standing behind her with concern etched on his face.

"I didn't intend to upset you," he began to apologize, chastened.  She shook her head, cutting him off as she drew a ragged breath and turned back to face him.

"No, I'm not - it's not that - " she sputtered, but language escaped her. She took a slower, deeper breath, forcing down the raw emotion in her voice.  "I'm fine. You surprised me."

Tullius hand had not moved from her shoulder.  Gallica could feel it there, warm and reassuring, and the gentle pressure began to cause something within her to slowly crumble.  She did not shrug him away.

"I had intended to bring it up with a bit more finesse," the General agreed. "Do it properly, in the right time and place. I tried to say something that day in Solitude, but there was the interruption and after that there just wasn't the time."

He stepped closer to her, but Gallica did not move away.  There was something magnetic in the closeness of his body - something she had never even allowed herself to imagine since the night he had walked her home.

"By long habit," he continued, his voice lowering, "I don't leave loose ends behind me before a battle.  I didn't want to go out tomorrow without having told you how I feel about you. Perhaps that's selfish of me, but I hope you can understand."

His fingers were brushing tendrils of hair from her face and then, when she did not stop him, she felt the warm of his palm cradling her cheek, the thumb tracing a gentle arc across her cheekbone.  Gallica felt her breath catch.  Her gaze was riveted to his, her heart pounding in her ears.  He body was confused, both trying to spring away from him and bury herself in his arms at the same time.

"I know what I want," Tullius told her as he lean in, his voice a low murmur by now. "I hope I haven't misread what you want, as well."

The kiss was tentative at first, but when he felt her response, his hands slid down and around her waist more confidently, sending what felt like a lightning bolt up Gallica's spine. The entire world seemed to exist only between the two of them in that moment, everything else - the war, Ulfric, the months of bitter fighting - forgotten. When they broke at last, Tullius kissed her brow and leaned his lips against her her forehead, his arms warm and solid around her.

"Will you marry me?" he murmured, simply.

Gallica closed her eyes tightly and bit her lip so hard that she tasted blood. She wanted to say "yes" so badly that she could hardly breathe. She wanted to forget everything else that had happened up until this moment and everything that would happen after tonight.  She wanted to try to be happy - for once in her life, to just allow herself to be happy with someone who wanted nothing more from her than that. It could work with Tullius, she knew. The only barriers there were the ones she had created for herself. Even as she thought it, though, she felt as if an icy hand had reached out and pulled her back from paradise into the mire of reality.

"I can't," she said, her voice breaking painfully into a whisper as she said it.  

Gallica stepped back, without opening her eyes.  She couldn't bear to look at his face and see the disappointment there.

"Why?" he asked, and the plaintive pain in the question shattered her heart. He continued quickly, "if it's an issue of rank and command, there are ways to-"

"No, I know," she responded, bringing her hands up to cover her face as she felt tears beginning to gather and fall at the corners of her eyes. She could feel him staring at her, the questions behind his eyes searching for answers.  She shook her head, trying and failing to force her voice to be steady. "It's nothing to do with you. Any woman would be lucky to have you."

She felt his touch again, covering her hands as he tried to comfort her.

"Whatever it is, we'll deal with it.  Tell me."  When she didn't reply, a note of consternation came into his voice.  "I know you feel something for me, Gallica. I'm not just going to let this go.  This is too important.  Tell me."

She tried to explain, but lost the words. Even if she had been able to find them, there was no way she could tell him what had consumed her thoughts for the last few months without betraying her plan to help Ulfric escape. And if she did that, Ulfric was lost. She would never get close enough to him again to interfere. She would be confessing herself an accessory to treason.  He would be bound to arrest her for that, whether he loved her or not.  She could not put him in that position.  At last, she was spared the question.

"It's Ulfric, then?" Tullius asked, finally, and for the second time that night, Gallica felt her heart drop into her stomach - only this time with cold fear.

"How did you know?" she asked, bitterly, finally looking up to meet his gaze.

There was concern in Tullius' frown and pain, but there was another emotion, too.  A rising determination.  The General in him beginning to come back to the forefront.

"You're still in love with him?"

Gallica thought for a moment.  There was no point in hiding that from him any longer.  She withdrew her hands from his and shook her head.

"No," she replied truthfully.  "I care for him, but not in that way anymore. I know better now."

That answer seemed to settle him slightly, but his scrutiny remained.  She sighed.

"I do have feelings for you, Tullius.  I won't lie to you.  In another life, I could love you.  But I have to see this through to the end with Ulfric. I owe him that. I'm sorry."

The general's hard expression faltered for a moment, frustration crossing his face as he glanced away from her to collect himself before replying.

"I wasn't suggesting we run out and find a priest tonight. One way or another, this business with Ulfric ends tomorrow. I can wait, if you need time."

Gallica shook her head, wordlessly, brushing tears out of her eyes as her face flamed with shame.  Tullius watched her, and she could see his thoughts flying behind his eyes as his jaw worked tightly.  His voice was tight when he next spoke.  Her superior now, rather than her prospective lover.

"Should I be concerned about tomorrow?"

All pretense fell from Gallica then as she understood his meaning.  Whatever her plans, she could not bear to have him think her a traitor.  That was one pain too many.

"No. I'm good to my oaths.  It's time for this to be over.  The war will be over tomorrow.  The Empire will triumph.  And that will be the end of it."

Tullius considered this.  He turned away from her, pacing a few steps about the room without looking at her.  Gallica waited, her head bowed.  The General paused, his hands clasping behind his back, his fingers tightening and releasing together with irritable energy as he came to a conclusion.

"By rights, I should have you removed from duty until after Ulfric has been dealt with. It's too much of a risk. But I won't. This stays between the two of us. I need you out there tomorrow.  I'm going to trust you, because I believe that you are good to your honor. I know that you will do the right thing," he told her. Before she could reply, Tullius snapped his gaze back to her. "I'm not giving up on you that easily, either. I haven't gotten to where I am today by faltering at the first hurdle. I won't let you cheat yourself out of being loved because of some imagined penance you have to do for Ulfric Stormcloak. If he's still alive when we take the Palace tomorrow, I'll honor the request you made of me when you re-enlisted. The Emperor himself is traveling to Solitude as we speak, so Ulfric will get a real trial. Justice will be served. Order will be restored. When that's finished, I will ask you again. I will be damned, Gallica, if I've waited all these years for a woman like you to come along and I fail put up a fight to keep you from getting away."

Gallica looked at him sadly for a moment, taking in the determined set of his jaw, the fire in his eyes, and then nodded her acceptance.

"I should go."

"We march at dawn," he told her, flatly, as she turned towards the door.


	18. The End, and What Came After

The causeway that led up to the gates of Windhelm seemed to stretch in front of Gallica longer and emptier than it had ever seemed before. A slight breeze filtered up the valley from the coast, but otherwise the world seemed to hold its breath.  The only sounds were the creak of armor, the squeak of saddle leathers, and the sharp report of the horse's hooves on the paving stones. General Tullius rode on a white horse front and center, with Rikke and Gallica riding on either flank and a small contingent of honor guard behind, each of them dressed in their best gear with their armor polished to a high shine. The smooth surface of Gallica's dragonbone armor glowed like polished ivory in the pale morning light.  The curving teeth of the dead dragon framing her face in savage splendor. She was well-aware of the effect that the sight of her armor, now glorified in song and story by bards all across the country, had on on-lookers. That was why she stood at Tullius' heel now, a powerful symbol of Skyrim and Nord culture arrayed against the Stormcloaks in the coming fight.

A figure stepped forward on the rampart. Gallica's heart leapt, but it was not Ulfric. Nor was it Galmar. A functionary then. A stand-in.

"Turn around and go home, Imperials. There will be no admittance to Windhelm today," barked the functionary. "But if you have a message for Jarl Ulfric-"

"Ulfric Stormcloak is an accused murder and traitor to the Emperor and all loyal citizens of the Empire. He must stand accountable for his actions," Tullius called back, sternly. "By the order of Emperor Titus Mead II, I am here to place him and all who would lend him aid and support under military arrest. If he and his chief supporters will surrender themselves voluntarily, we will escort them to Solitude to face trial and summary judgment at the Emperor's pleasure. If not, then we will be obligated to take him and his city by force."

"You're wasting your breath, General. My lord Ulfric will never surrender Skyrim to the Imperial milkdrinkers who betrayed us to the Thalmor and denied us the worship of our god. Talos stands with us and we will hold Windhelm as long as there are any true Nords drawing breath within our walls!" the spokesman shouted back, scowling.

"Very well. Then I extend one last offer of mercy to any within your ranks who would lay down their weapons. Civilians and those Stormcloaks who choose to surrender their arms and take cover will be granted clemency. Once the gates are breached, no one bearing arms in Windhelm will be spared the sword."

A murmur ran across the wall top and Gallica could see the uneasiness in some of the faces above her. They had the look of men who suspected that most of the people standing around them would not be alive when the sun set, and hoped beyond hope that the hand of death would not fall upon their own shoulder today. They would fight like cornered saber-cats because there was nowhere else for them to go now - and a lot of otherwise honorable men would die for Ulfric today.

"We're not buying what you're peddling, milkdrinker. Take your pet Dragonborn there and go. Windhelm is ready for you."

"So be it," Tullius replied.

Turning his horse in a tight circle, Gallica and the rest of the guard reorienting themselves in the process, the group started back for the Imperial front line. The parlay was over, and the battle was only beginning. A young soldier ran up and took the reins of the horse, leading it away as the general dismounted. Tullius turned first to Rikke.

"Signal the catapults. After the first volley, send in the vexillation we assembled from the southern flank to take the docks. The Argonians were given warning and scouts confirmed that they have vacated. I want that lower gate secured and barricaded."

"By your orders." Rikke said, crisply, springing immediately to action as she hurried ahead toward one of the cornicens standing with ram's horn trumpet next to the standard bearer at the forward watch post.

"You're with me," he told Gallica, grimly, turning without pause to head up the slope after Rikke.

The order took her by surprise, for that was not the position she had been assigned, and Gallica hurried after him.

"Sir, it was my understanding that I was to go in with the ram to help secure the gate."

"Change of plans, Legate. You're on tactical now," he replied, stiffly, his tone brooking no further discussion. Right now, they were soldiers. Personal business had been left behind at the fort.

"Yes, sir," Gallica replied, obediently if somewhat bemused.

It was highly irregular to shift a command so quickly and right before a battle was to start. Not until they reached the watch post and Gallica looked down to see the flood plain around the city stretched out in front of them did the reason dawn on her.

Tullius might trust her, but he was not a fool and he did not take unnecessary risks. Rather than take her off of the field completely, he had reposted her where he could keep an eye on her, just in case. It stung a little, but Gallica could not blame him and so she accepted her assigned place without further comment. Tullius would have to send her into the city eventually, and he knew, as she did, that Gallica was perhaps the only match for Ulfric and his Voice in combat. One way or another, she would face Ulfric, and it would not be long now.

~~0~~

As with Whiterun, the object was to use the city's own walls to contain the citizens while the flaming missiles from the catapults sowed chaos in the streets. Unlike the Stormcloak invasion, however, the Legion could bombard Windhelm at their leisure for weeks if they chose. There were no allies waiting in the wings to lend aid from behind. Ulfric's men would have to break out of their own city in order to stop the deadly hail, and it was the forward legions' job to keep them in. Still, a lengthy siege would result in massive civilian casualties and that was to be avoided if a quicker solution was available.

Gallica had a clear view of the formations below as the troops began to close in on Windhelm. Smoke rose in great columns from the city after the first rain of catapult missiles, and, if Gallica's memory was correct, it appeared that the market district was up in flames as well as parts of the Grey Quarter. Briefly, she hoped that Suvaris and her family had managed to get out of the city. The Grey Quarter was a tinderbox waiting to burn. Finally, when it was judged that the fires had sowed enough chaos within the walls, it was time to take the gates. The archers on the wall tops had the advantage of high ground and range, but the Legion was equally equipped for siege warfare. The units formed up into tight, boxy phalanxes - called "tortoises" - with their shields held locked together over their heads and around the sides to protect from arrows as they advanced. Under the cover of the tortoise phalanxes, the great rams, carved from tree trunks bigger around than a man, processed up the causeway.  A company of light infantry and archers followed behind them, shooting up at the walls to keep the Stormcloak archers and sappers under fire. The locked shields could protect against arrows and other missiles, but heavier rocks and boiling oil were cause for concern. As the first loud  _boom_  of the ram against the gates sounded across the river, Tullius donned his helmet.

"Form up the men," he rapped out to Rikke. "It's nearly time."

Gallica felt her heart begin to beat a war tattoo against her ribs as she hurried down to the field at Tullius' side. Once the gates were breached, the shock troops would flood the plaza and swarm the walls, taking care of the top line defenses. The prime century of Rikke's legion, with Tullius at the lead, would cut a path through the remaining enemy soldiers to the Palace. Once the dragon's head was removed, Gallica thought, the rest of the body would collapse on itself like so much dead weight. The moment that she would confront Ulfric again would soon be upon her. Now that it was finally here, she would have to make a decision and there was precious little time. A sickening sense of dread about what she would find in the Palace began to fill her, but there was nothing that could be done about it now.

"Stay close," Tullius told her as they moved towards the head of the column. "The first thing those poor bastards see when we hit the gates is going to be me, but I want the second thing they see to be you. If they have any sense, they'll drop their swords and run. If not, we'll cut them down like kindling."

"Yes, sir," Gallica responded mechanically, and Tullius stopped for a moment.

He turning and searching her eyes, levelly.

"You know what's coming," he told her, frankly. "If the worst should happen, are you prepared?"

 _No_ , she thought, honestly.  _Even after a thousand years, I would never be prepared for that._  

She drew in a deep breath.

"Yes, sir."

"If Rikke and I are both cut down, it will be up to you. Circumstances being what they are, I need to know that I can count on you to finish it, if necessary."

"You won't be cut down," Gallica told him, certainly, feeling a pang in her heart at the thought of it.  Tullius shook his head.

"No, I won't.  I made you a promise and I intend on keeping it," he grunted, but his face grew serious. "Can I count on you, Gallica?"

"Yes," she replied, at last, and the General nodded, accepting her answer.  

He brushed her shoulder briefly before he turned and strode up to where Rikke was waiting. As he surveyed the men, there was an ear-splitting crack and boom in the distance and Tullius grinned, drawing his sword as he strode before the ranks.

"The gates are down. Let's go trap us a bear, boys. Move out!"

~~0~~

Ever afterwards, Gallica could never recall how long the Battle of Windhelm had lasted or how many she had killed or whether or not she had been wounded. From the moment that she burst through the gates, hard on Tullius' heels with a century of soldiers roaring behind her like a deadly crimson tide, to the moment that she spotted the great iron doors of the Palace of the Kings looming up before her, the world was a blur of fire, blood, writhing bodies, and stone. Pain was forgettable, death was inevitable, and the only thing she could consciously remember was a singular cadence beating throughout her brain with every heartbeat. 

 _Ulfric_.

"You men, guard the exits," Rikke's voice, seemingly muffled, said from somewhere behind Gallica as she approached the doors.  The Legate gestured to a group of soldiers. "You four, with us."

Tullius reached for the iron ring to test the door and found that it creaked opened without resistance.  It had not been barred against them.

"It's unlocked," Tullius observed, frowning.  "This must be a trick. Ulfric's city is burning down around him, his walls have been breached, and he leaves his front door open for us?"

"He knows we're coming. He knows he can't stop us, so why should he? He wants us to come for him," Rikke replied and Tullius considered this for a moment before nodding, grimly.

"Let's get this over with."

The great hall of the Palace was as brightly lit as if a feast were expected, but that was the only thing festive about it. The fine decorations had been removed, or perhaps sold to pay for the war effort since the revenue from the mines and the trade routes had dried up, but, with the strange perception for detail that sometimes comes during times of stress, Gallica could see that the torches were new and the wall sconces had been dressed with fresh oil and wicks. They were expected. Ulfric wanted to see the faces of his attackers clearly.

There, at the back of the hall, the Jarl of Windhelm was seated upon his throne and Galmar, ever faithful, stood at his side with his great axe at the ready. Not another soul could be seen or heard anywhere else in the palace.  He was waiting for them.

"Bar the doors," Tullius barked, curtly, as he stormed towards the throne with Gallica in close pursuit, but the soldiers that Rikke had ordered to follow them were already seeing to it.

"Already done, sir." the Legate rapped out as she hurried alongside Gallica.

"Ulfric Stormcloak," the general called, his voice ringing clearly and authoritatively through the wide space of the hall, "You are guilty of insurrection, murder, the assassination of High King Torygg, and high treason against the Empire. You are finished here.  It's over."

Gallica was barely listening. The world seemed to slow to a crawl around her as she rounded the wide table in the center of the hall to stand before the high seat.  Her eyes were locked onto the figure there - the man that she had once loved and had nearly given up everything for. Ulfric.  She would have been able to pick him out of a crowd of thousands. But this was not Ulfric as she remembered him.  

The man on the throne had Ulfric's proud posture, but the shoulders were a little more hunched, born down by the strain of fighting a losing war. He looked older, his face pale, dark circles under his eyes from lack of sleep, and his normally neatly groomed beard and hair unkempt. His eyes, however, were the same - blue points of fire in a weary face - and they locked on Gallica as if she were the only other person in the room. He was perfectly, eerily calm. He was not afraid.

 _I_ _don't fear death_ , she heard him say, the memory of his words clenching around her heart like a fist.

"Not while  _I'm_  still alive it's not over," Galmar snarled stepping protectively between Tullius and his Jarl.

"Step aside, Galmar. We're here to accept Ulfric's surrender," Rikke interjected, reasonably.

The Nord Legate had stepped ahead of the General, her gaze fixed on Ulfric's housecarl.  For an instant, Gallica remembered what Rikke had told her about her past with Galmar, and she wondered if this was as difficult for Rikke as it was for her. But her attention snapped back to Ulfric as he shook his head.

"I will never surrender Skyrim into the hands of a corrupt and dying Empire," the Jarl replied evenly, rising from the throne as he spoke.

 _No_ , Gallica thought, cringing inwardly, unable to dredge up words to express the horrible premonition that was building inside of her and powerless to stop what was about to happen. _Ulfric, you fool, w_ _hy can't you ever just stop?_

"Skyrim doesn't belong to you, Ulfric," Rikke retorted.  Her expression was pained, as if she were trying to reason with a friend who was standing on the edge of a dangerous precipice and threatening to jump.   Gallica could hear the same rising note of fear in the other woman's voice that was pounding through Gallica's own veins.

They had been friends once, she remembered, but all other thoughts instantly vanished as Ulfric smiled faintly, his eyes still trained on Gallica's.

"No. But I belong to her."

She had seen that look before on men who knew that they were about to die.  It was all she could do to remain still. She wanted to scream at him, to plead with him - _just this once -_ to do the reasonable thing and surrender so that she could have even the smallest chance of seeing him live through this. She wanted to hit him or throw her arms around him or take up a sword for him at this last possible moment to keep him from forcing his own execution.  But, she couldn't.  Her body felt as if it were made of lead, as if she were a spectator in someone else's life.

 _No, no, Divines, no_ ,  _this is not how this was supposed to happen._

"Enough!" Tullius roared, angrily, at last. "You are both traitors and will die traitors' deaths. Stand down and face trial and public execution, or fight and die here. It's the all the same to me. Either way, I'll be sending both your heads back to Cyrodiil in a box."

"Ulfric!" Gallica cried out, desperately, unable to keep it bound inside any longer.  But it was already too late.

Galmar's voice cut through hers, a roar of rage, as he launched himself forward in defense of Ulfric.  His eyes were full of hate as he raised his axe.

Gallica darted forward to intercept the housecarl before he could reach Rikke or the General.  Though she brought her shield up in time to keep his first swing from cleaving her head in two, Galmar was strong and the blow drove her down to her knees. There was a clash of metal against metal from somewhere nearby, but the only thing that Gallica could see was the hulking form of her attacker. He swung again as she sprung to her feet, lunging in at him and slamming her shield against his elbows to interrupt a sweep that could have cracked her armor and cut her from shoulder to belly.  Instinctively, her body reacting as she had trained it to after more than a decade of fighting, she drove the point of her short sword in under his exposed arm. She heard the screech of the blade as it penetrate his mail and felt hot blood spill down her arm, but at the same instant a heel buried itself painfully and hard into the soft spot at the back of her knee.  Galmar used his leverage to wrench her body off balance, tumbling her flat on to her back, as he hefted his axe for the killing blow.

Somewhere nearby, the air shot past Gallica with a furious clap like thunder as Ulfric's Thu'um sounded echoed off of the walls.  The shadow of her enemy rose over her, oblivious to what should have been a mortal wound.  Something in her knee had snapped and she could not get her legs underneath her in time.  Gallica stared up at her death as the housecarl's blood rained down on her and his enraged roar drowned out all other sound as he brought down his final blow.  Out of reflex alone, Gallica rolled.  She used the momentum of her body to stab violently upwards. The blade struck true, driving itself almost hilt deep through Galmar's throat just as the bone-breaking collision of the axe hit her backplate, reaving through the dragonbone like so much firewood and carving a channel of white-hot agony along her right side and back.

The Nord general's face was visible for just an instant near Gallica's own, his blue-grey eyes fixing on hers with appalled rage and shock, before he emitted a pained gurgle, staggered, and then collapsed.  The torsion of his fall wrenched Gallica's sword from her hand as he fell across her body.

The hall was silent.

Groaning, every nerve in her body screaming pain, Gallica thrashed and pulling herself out from under the dead weight of the housecarl.  With some difficulty, she stood, gasping for air as she clasped a hand over her side to staunch the blood that was quickly sopping through her armor padding and trickling down her thigh in sticky red rivulets. She looked for Tullius and Rikke, but they had been flung far back down the hall by Ulfric's Shout.  Her eyes locked instead on Ulfric, who was closing in on her with axe in hand.  His expression was grim.  His eyes burned into hers with the cold blue of a draugr.

Panic rose like bile in Gallica's throat.  There was no time to drag her sword from Galmar's body.  She might have time to reach the dirk she kept sheathed at her boot, but it would do no good against Ulfric's axe and she was too badly injured now to move swiftly.  Ulfric knew that he was a dead man either way.  He knew that it was finished - but he would take as many of his attackers with him as he could.  And once she was dead, Tullius and Rikke would follow.

 _Can I count on you?_ , Tullius asked in her mind.  

Gallica knew then what she had to do.

" ** _Fus ro dah!"_** she Shouted, her throat burning with the Thu'um as she summoning every ounce of her being - every bit of the pain, the fear, and the anger that had been building up within her since she had killed Alduin.

She summoned the feeling of powerlessness and the sleepless nights.  She channeled the heartaches, the bitter fighting, and the terror that one day a day like today would come.  The force of it left her body, empowering the dragon words like a world-drowning tidal wave of loss.

Ulfric, who had been within feet of her as she roared out the words, was flung backwards through the air as if a giant had picked him up and hurled him with every ounce of its strength.  He landed hard, smacking against the stone wall on the other side of the hall with a dreadful cracking sound. Even from where she stood, Gallica could hear the breath rush out of him like a wind.  He crumpled like a child's ragdoll to the floor.

For an instant, there was no sound.  Not a particle of air seemed to move int he Palace.  Gallica heart sank, certain that she had killed him.  But then she heard Ulfric cough - a loud choking, painful gasp that echoed through the hall.

Rikke and Tullius wasted no time. As Ulfric struggled slowly up onto his hands and knees, he found Rikke's sword at his throat. Gallica stood absolutely still, staring, oblivious to her injuries as the General approached the fallen Jarl.

"Well, Ulfric," Tullius began evenly, though Gallica could tell from his voice that even he had been rattled by what had just happened. "I don't think you'll be escaping this time. Do you have anything to say for yourself before we end this?"

Ulfric was still for a long moment.  His hair was draped around his face, obscuring it in shadow.  He did not look up.  His voice, when he spoke, was clear.

"Let the Dragonborn do it," he said, at last.  "It'll make for a better song."

Rikke flinched visibly.  She glanced at Gallica with a guilty, pained expression.  Tullius' face hardened.  But Gallica remained unmoving, and she felt the world sink slowly into place around her.

She could see it now - the piece of the puzzle that she had missed in all of this.  Even mad Jarl Idgrod of Morthal had known itand warned her, but Gallica knew that she had blinded herself to a truth that she could not accept.  She would never have been able to save Ulfric.  He didn't want to be saved. Even if she had succeeded in getting him out of Windhelm and out of Skyrim altogether, he would only have come back.  Because, she knew, he truly did love his country - completely and unstintingly, no matter how flawed his way of showing it was. But also because there could be no more satisfying death for him than to die in pursuit of his dream.  His legend. The one thing that would live after him for all time when he had gone to Sovngarde. Even if he failed to remake Skyrim in his own image, he would still have the attempt as his legacy.  And that was enough.  Even in defeat, there was still a kind of victory.

Tullius, finally shifting into uneasy action, shook his head, scowling.

"No.  It'll be a headsman for you, like every other traitor. But not yet, Ulfric. I don't want anyone to say that you never got your fair day in court. Rikke, get him out of-"

"I'll do it," Gallica interrupted.  

Tullius stopped dead as if he had been slapped. Rikke's face paled visibly, her lips forming a silent curse.  Gallica began calmly to limp towards Ulfric.  Tullius stepped into her path.  There was tremendous concern written on his face as he searched her eyes.  He stepped close to her, leaned in and dropping his voice so that only she could hear it.

"You don't owe him this," he insisted, swiftly. "I'll make sure he gets his trial and that he's treated appropriately until then, as I promised.  Let the headsman do it."

A vision of Roggveir, the unfortunate gate guard that Gallica had seen executed the first time that she visited Solitude, flashed to her mind. She imagined Ulfric standing before the executioner's block for the second time in his life while a sea of people screamed for his blood.  She could not imagine Ulfric kneeling down before the block to accept that death.  Ulfric had never knelt to anyone.

"I'll do it," Gallica repeated and then added when Tullius seemed about to protest, "It's his last request.  We can be generous in victory."

The General stared at her hard for an instant, his expression frozen somewhere between shock and prodigious worry.  She could see him turning over an order of refusal - but finally he relented.  The General straightened, gravely, and offered her his own sword with an air of ceremony.

"Use my blade. I sharpened it last night. It will be cleaner."

Gallica took the wasp-waisted gladius from him and then moved, limping against the agony in her side and in her knee, over to Ulfric.  He didn't look up until she knelt painfully down to be at eye level with him.

It was the first time that they had looked each other full in the face since she had left Windhelm.  There was a deep pain and exhaustion in his eyes.  Physical pain from his wounds in addition to the pain of his shattered pride and the end of all of his plans.  The exhaustion of months of bitter, losing warfare in the northern winter.  There was the pain of seeing her again - of remembering happier times when they had looked into each others eyes in this way - and knowing that this was the last opportunity to do so.  She wanted to be angry at him - for forcing this, for everything that had happened since the first time she had met him - but all that came to Gallica now in these last moments was a soul-rending compassion. She reached out and laid her left hand on his cheek and neck as she had done when they had been lovers what seemed like an age ago now.

"This is the last gift I can give you," Gallica told him, lowering her voice and trying hard to keep her voice from shaking as she held his gaze. "Whatever else is said about Ulfric Stormcloak, history will remember you as the man whom none but the Dragonborn could kill and who was beloved by her. Your name will be sung with mine until the very end of the world. I swear it."

He smiled then faintly and she felt the subtle relaxation in his body as he understood the gift and accepted it.  Trembling, she let her arm slide further around his neck in a final embrace.  She pressed her cheek against his unshaven cheek and closed her eyes, gritting her teeth.

"I will wait for you," he whispered next to her ear, seconds before Gallica - with one swift plunge - sent the blade up under his ribs and into his heart.

His blood mingled with her own and that of Galmar as she held him, releasing the sword to support his large frame until she felt the last of the life go out of him, and then she eased the body that had been Ulfric Stormcloak - Jarl of Windhelm, traitor, patriot, and lover - gently to the ground. Someone murmured something behind her, but Gallica heard nothing. There was a roaring in her ears that drowned out everything around her.  She felt at the corpse's neck for the Talos amulet that she had left for Ulfric on the morning that she had gone to fight Alduin and pulled it free, tucking it into her belt before she raised herself numbly and with great difficulty to her feet.

Gallica did not hear Tullius and Rikke speaking to her. When Rikke touched her shoulder, she followed them mechanically out into the courtyard of the Palace, but she stood as silent and unseeing as a stone as the General delivered his victory address.

Ulfric was dead. She had killed him. That was all there was to say.

And it would be a long time before Gallica said anything at all.

~~0~~

Tullius read the report on his desk for the fifth time that morning without understanding a word of what it said and then tossed it away in irritation. He leaned forward onto his elbows and rubbed his temples, trying to assuage the dull precursor of a headache. A month had passed since the Stormcloak Rebellion had ended - that was what the bards and the writers of history were now calling the civil war - but there was no rest for the weary and especially not for a weary military governor.  Tullius was still the only person in Skyrim at present with some semblance of central authority.

Martial law had only been intended to last until the Jarls could elect a new High King or Queen. Tullius had assumed that once Ulfric was dead, the war was finished, and the new Jarls were properly installed, the Moot would be organized quickly.  They would elect Elisif and the long business of reconstruction could begin in earnest. To everyone's surprise, however, the Jarls had refused to convene. That damned obstinate Balgruuf and mad Idgrod, joined by Brunwulf Free-Winter of Windhelm and even Kraldar of Winterhold eventually, had kicked up a fuss about it.  They had insisted that the decision wait until the Dragonborn could be present to lend her authority to the Moot. Tullius had argued with them to see sense, but when Elisif had begun to murmur that it would be fitting to have the Dragonborn there as well, he had been forced to relent.  But that presented its own problems.  No one knew where the Dragonborn had gone.  And so, Skyrim remained in a state of uneasy gridlock.

Tullius was a brave man.  He had never shirked away from a fight and there were few things in the world that scared him - but he had never been more frightened for another person than he had been for Gallica after Ulfric's death. In his gut, even before the final battle, he had known that Ulfric was not the sort of man to outlive his pride.  He had expected the former Jarl to go down fighting or force an immediate execution.  But he hadn't wanted Gallica to be the one to deliver the fatal blow. Considering their history, that was too much for one person bear - even someone as strong as Gallica. And he had been right. It had broken her.

Gallica had stood silently beside him through the victory speech, but she had given no indication that she heard him when he tried to talk to her afterwards.  He had known then that something was desperately wrong.  Her eyes had seemed empty and glazed. He had thought that it was the death of Ulfric.  It was not until she collapsed in the street as she accompanied him to collect Brunwulf Free-Winter to be installed as Jarl that Tullius realized that she had been more gravely injured than she had let on.

A shard of Galmar's axe, which shattered on the stone floor of the Palace during that terrible fight, had lodged itself in her side and she had lost a great deal of blood.  In her shock, she had forgotten her injuries and so it was only by quick thinking on Rikke's part that Gallica's life was saved.

"Take some time," he had told her later once the healers had done their work.  She would not look up at him from where she sat on the side of her cot, and Tullius had felt his worry increased by a sense of guilt for pressing her this far.  "We've pushed you too hard these last few months. Rikke and I can take it from here. Rest.  Come back when you're ready."

He had thought that Gallica would simply retreat into the camps for a week or so to rest and lick her wounds, and eventually she would emerge ready to talk. Instead, she disappeared.  Everything but her horse and the clothes on her back was left behind. Not even the scouts could track her path.

For a while, Tullius worried about the potential for a suicide, but no body was ever discovered and Rikke seemed confident that Gallica was not the type to fall on her own sword.

"She'll be back," his chief Legate had assured him. "She's a Legion woman. We always turn up when we're needed."

So, Tullius waited and applied himself as best he could to the mountainous task of pulling some order out of the post-war chaos. The Emperor would be arriving soon, both to oversee the satisfactory conclusion of the war and to attend his cousin's wedding, and that was no small thing. There were still small hold-outs of unruly Stormcloaks scattered up in the hills and, more worryingly, vampire attacks were on the rise in all of the nine holds. A man named Isran had apparently dredged up the Dawnguard - some sort of archaic society of vampire hunters - in order to deal with the threat.  Since he seemed to be having a small amount of success at it, Tullius had set a few of his people to keep an eye on the vampire-hunters and let it be. There had been bigger problems for him to deal with.

Three weeks ago, however, the intelligence reports had begun to center in on one of the Dawnguard agents in particular, a woman of unknown identity who had only recently been recruited, but had risen to become one of the Dawnguard's most prominent agents in a remarkably short span of time.  A blonde-haired swordswoman with a Cyrodiilic accent.  The coincidence was too much to ignore.  So, Tullius sent a messenger with two letters.  One he sent to Isran to ask the identity of the recruit.  The second he sent to be delivered to Gallica if the mysterious agent was indeed her.

The Dawnguard leader wrote back to say that it was none of Tullius bloody business who his recruits were and that, unless Tullius was planning to take up a crossbow himself, Isran would thank him kindly to sod off and let them get on with their work. The messenger reported that Isran had kept the letter for Gallica, though, and so Tullius held out hope that it was her and that, when she finished whatever battle she was fighting now, she would be back.

The gamble had paid off.  Just days after a report stating the success of the Dawnguard arrived, word came up from the city guard that the Dragonborn had returned to her house in Solitude. It was only through a colossal act of willpower that Tullius prevented himself from rushing directly over to Proudspire Manor to see for himself. In the last half a year, Gallica had been through things that would have crushed most other mere mortals.  More now than he knew, he suspected.  She would come out when she was ready.

That had been five days ago, though, and the hours - the _minutes_ \- crawled by like centuries. Tullius didn't know why she had not come, and the possible reasons made him ache to his very core when he thought about them. Even if he had lost any chance of making a life with her, it would be enough to know that she was at least not permanently damaged.  It would be relief, however bitter, to find that the woman he loved still existed and that she had not been lost to the war.

Standing up suddenly, the General yanked his cloak from the wall and hurried for the door. Daedra take him, he couldn't stand it any longer. He had to know.

The days were growing noticeably longer again in Solitude and the icicles that hung from the roofs of the mansions along the royal avenue were dripping into the piles of snow along the foundations with a sound like rain. Winter had not yet released its grasp on Skyrim, but spring was on its way and the sun shone brightly out of a vibrantly blue sky, warming the world as it rocked back from the darkness of midwinter. A thin wisp of smoke curled up from the chimney of Proudspire Manor, and Tullius felt his mouth go dry with anticipation.

When no one answered at the third knock, he stepped back, flustered and disappointed. Gallica's housecarl must be out in the market. As he turned to troop back down to the high street to see if he could find the woman, too wrought up to give up so easily, a thought struck him.

Each of the manors in the Palace district was built on basically the same floor plan and each possessed a small terrace garden at the back which overlooked the ocean below the great sea arch. Feeling like a trespasser, but knowing he would not rest until he had attempted everything in his power, Tullius found his way around the side of the manor and through the walkway that ran between Proudspire and its neighbor to the back of the house.

A woman was leaning on the stone balustrade of the porch, looking out over the water and watching the sea-hawks wheel and circle above the cliffs. Her blonde hair hung in a neat, simple braid down her back, contrasting with the dark grey of the wolf fur mantle that was wrapped around her shoulders. She turned to look at Tullius as he paused at the entrance to the porch

Hers was the same face that had haunted his dreams for months now.  There was a new scar on her temple, running from just beside her right ear up into her hairline.  Her nose was a bit crooked - a recent injury perhaps.  But it was unmistakably Gallica and his heart leapt into his throat at the sight of her. Her eyes had changed the most, out of everything. There was life in them again, a light of recognition as she gazed back into his face, but it was as if a veil had been drawn across some inward place that had once been open.

She looked at him for a moment, neither welcoming nor forbidding.  At last, she turned her gaze back out to the sea. Uncertain, but unable to force himself to leave now that he had seen her, Tullius walked over and leaned on the balustrade next to her.

"I wasn't sure that you had received my letter," he admitted, after a few moments of silence. "Isran sent word back that you were none of my business."

She looked down, a faint smile curving on her lips.

"That sounds like him," Gallica responded.  She sighed. "I didn't receive it until a few days ago. I've been busy, or I would have come sooner."

"So I heard."

Silence. Uncomfortable, Tullius shifted and then looked at her. In profile, he could see that Gallica's face was perhaps a little leaner than it had been, the care lines beginning to show around her eyes just a little more. She would be about twenty-five, he reckoned, but the expression on her face and in her eyes was that of a much older person now. Even so, even with the scars, he found her soul-achingly beautiful, just as he had since the moment he had laid eyes on her back in Helgen.  He had pitied her then - had thought it a waste of a fair face to send her to the execution block.  Now, after everything that they had been through, it was all he could do to prevent himself from throwing his arms around her and telling her how much he had worried for her and how glad he was to see her again.

"The Jarls have been holding the Moot up until your return," he said, finally, awkwardly. "They insisted that you be there to preside over it."

"I know. Tell them I'll come."

"And I'm certain the Emperor will want an audience when he arrives. His travel has been delayed by storms along the western coast, but he expressed curiosity about you in the last letter his scribe sent."

She nodded, but said nothing.

"Gallica," Tullius said, at last, turning to face her, "about what happened at Windhelm-"

She stood, crossing her hands over her chest as she sighed out at the sea.  She shook her head.

"It's over with, Tullius. It's done.  We can let it go."

He stared at her for a moment, trying to discern her feelings, anything that might tell him what she was thinking.

"Do you blame me for how things ended?"

She turned her head to him and her smile, though pained, was genuine.

"No. You were good to your word. I'm grateful to you for that."  She drew in a breath, and let her shoulders relax. "No.  Ulfric made his choice. And I made mine. And it's done with. I've made peace with it."

He nodded, unsure of how to take this information, but she preempted him.

"You once asked me what my plans were for when the war was over. I didn't have an answer for you then.  But I do now," she told him.  Tullius waited as she gathered the words, and saw her smile increase as she watched the seahawks. "Akatosh made me the Dragonborn so that I could fulfill Alduin's prophecy and I have done so.  He didn't leave any instructions for what I was supposed to do afterwards. I take this as an invitation to make my own destiny - to use the gift to accomplish the things I want to accomplish instead of running away from who I am. And one of the things I want, General, is for the Empire to be made whole again.  I want it to be great and good again, like it was in the days of the Septim before the Thalmor were ever a threat to us."

She turned her smile on him again, and nodded, as if acquiescing something.

"So, yes, General Tullius.  I will stay in Skyrim to help you. As long as I'm needed. When the Thalmor prove themselves a threat once more, as they will eventually, I will destroy them. And the Empire will endure forever, as it should.  Divines grant it be so."

Looking at her as she said it, the unwavering confidence evident in Gallica's smile alongside the conviction in her eyes, Tullius felt the strange prickling of prophecy in some murky, primitive region of his mind.  He nodded. It would not be accomplished in his lifetime - he knew that - but if anyone could start Tamriel down the path that would reunite the Empire, it was the woman standing before him. And he believed in her.

"Is there still a chance," he asked before he could stop himself and because he could not bear to leave it unsaid, "that you would ever accept the offer that I made you that night before Windhelm?"

The question hung between them for what seemed like a torturously long moment and then, slowly, Gallica crossed the short distance between them and embrace him. To touch her after all this time was the pebble that set off the avalanche, and he clasped her to him fiercely, burying his face in her shoulder as he felt relief suffuse him for the first time in months.  After a moment, she drew back and kissed him with real feeling.

"After the Moot.  If you still want me," she told him, when they broke. "There are things I need to see to first. I need to be able to come to you with a clear conscience. You deserve that from me.  And I would rather face what's ahead with you beside me than any other way."

Gallica laced her fingers into his as she turned back to the balustrade, and Tullus turned with her to look out over the sea feeling that finally, at last, the war was really over. And a new, better chapter in the history of Tamriel was just about to begin.


End file.
